Sticking the stick inside
prodding it for a reaction.
Then they sprawled out
like blood out of a wound.
They ran with time, broken
and lost. Some sprinted towards
our feet. As we stepped away
like avoiding incoming tides.
Some picked up white eggs
and carried them back to the middle.
There looked to be disorder, panic,
a building on fire kind of panic.
But all they were doing was showing
us how life really is. When our minds
are poked by the unknown
and we try and settle everything down.
Back then we could have learnt more,
instead of allowing their false impression
turn our fears into fire drills.
THE LAST FISHERMAN
He liked to go the allotments
and pick worms. Fishing was a way
out for him. Out of her house,
to sit searching at the edge.
I hardly spoke to him, even when
we passed in the street. His hands
were always in his pockets,
and his lips fluted together
to whistle songs only he knew.
Last week I was told
he had been rushed into hospital.
Remembering the thick hedge
on the front lawn, wall high, keeping us
out and him in. I wonder where his rods
have gone and the float he would stare
at. Those times now reeled in,
as he tries to hook onto
the last bit of light.