Monday, 29 October 2012
Donald belonged in tar.
Black brown wellington top boots
with boot socks, grimed round and
welded to his once dress trousers
tied with twine. Brown baler twine.
He rolled from boot to boot, a shovel
shouldered as a boy's carved rifle good
for nothing more than propping as he cut twist.
I swear his right the thicker wrist
a knife with a curved blade blunt from all the
pigtail shag. He turned his hand
Plugging a gap in pegged teeth.
Donald walked. A roll and twist and halt in left or right
He mended holes in roads with grit left by the lorry boys.
One good eye and that eye not good enough
he turned his look to look at me,
A look from straight beneath the hill. A look that curdled sunlight.
'Now, it is yourself' he'd spit.
'Here, try this now, it's just like liquorice'.