We are on the quay buying sun-cream —
pelicans and painted fish at arm's length,
day trips to see the whales — when all I can look at
is this dog of sorts, dancing in the sun.
It tugs at the harness with its teeth,
bucks at the end of its lead.
The owner, a girl, tries to calm it gingerly.
I wonder if it’s the heat — the day’s or its own —
sand on its back, soil on its ears,
frost settled around its neck — Dingo.
Driving its tongue into an armpit, eyes in revolt,
pressing its teeth around a wrist — a cub’s neck,
paws pushed against its mother’s face,
fighting for its place in the pack —
creature from a guidebook, outside a gift-shop.
The girl calls out a name, it bounds,
looks into her eyes, then into the sky.
A man shouts from behind a double ice cream
You can shoot that, shoot that if you want.
It howls in mourning and licks her face.
Michael Crowley (UK)
From Michael's book First Fleet
An independent poetry journal. Watch your step.
Showing posts with label Michael Crowley. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Michael Crowley. Show all posts
2016/06/01
2016/04/21
Ten Pound Alan
Fastest runner in the school — I watched him
ease ahead of me on sports days, his chest
pressed against the finishing tape, first every time.
A good fighter, brilliant at rounders, climbing trees,
he once ate dog biscuits in my back garden,
sitting in a deck chair, Fritz’s paws on his knees.
I wasn’t sure what emigrating meant.
How far was that? I was afraid to ask.
I knew where he was going though.
That country in the corner of the map on the wall,
spread out like orange peel.
Ages and ages on holiday.
We went to his house before they left.
I sat on the floor by the fire pulling threads
from the carpet, a varnished boomerang
above me on the wall. His mother, poised
in front of net curtains, a silhouette inside silver
cigarette smoke, talked about the wages out there.
It was June, we stood in assembly
holding blue hymn books,
too much sun in the hall. The teacher,
her long dress yellow with flowers,
asks us all to wave to Alan. He hands me his book,
runs along the row, down the corridor,
looking back at no one.
Michael Crowley (UK)
From Michael's book First Fleet
ease ahead of me on sports days, his chest
pressed against the finishing tape, first every time.
A good fighter, brilliant at rounders, climbing trees,
he once ate dog biscuits in my back garden,
sitting in a deck chair, Fritz’s paws on his knees.
I wasn’t sure what emigrating meant.
How far was that? I was afraid to ask.
I knew where he was going though.
That country in the corner of the map on the wall,
spread out like orange peel.
Ages and ages on holiday.
We went to his house before they left.
I sat on the floor by the fire pulling threads
from the carpet, a varnished boomerang
above me on the wall. His mother, poised
in front of net curtains, a silhouette inside silver
cigarette smoke, talked about the wages out there.
It was June, we stood in assembly
holding blue hymn books,
too much sun in the hall. The teacher,
her long dress yellow with flowers,
asks us all to wave to Alan. He hands me his book,
runs along the row, down the corridor,
looking back at no one.
Michael Crowley (UK)
From Michael's book First Fleet
Editor's note: Ten-pound Poms
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