ONE
Olive Day
Dressed up,
pressing forward,
feel my body’s workings working
beneath my garb, my Sunday best.
The sun is high,
today we’re blessed.
For once it’s dry,
and I have to confess
it allows my mind to open a bit,
my senses to savour surrounding shit,
the muddy bank, the green,
the water on the river curve,
which curve I follow, trace,
till I’m faced
with certain images unforeseen.
Kiddies’ heads bob about rambunctious,
hear their crazy high-pitched ruckus.
Bank-to-bank racing, some mutual splashing,
a boy dunks a girl, she goes down thrashing.
Others call from the bridge for space,
then dive or cannonball in. The place
is as merry,
although, as always, the feeling is only momentary.
Watch as laughter lilts,
then tilts
toward moans
as a pissing of heavens means
the children have to shoreward flounder,
clamber out and hoof for shelter.
I hoof myself,
my shelter also my destination –
The Burning Bell,
to which I fly post-haste,
though, fucking hell,
by the time I get to the place,
I’m soaked to the skin.
Who cares? I’m in.
All right,
so, who’ve we got?
A couple of frightful-
looking hags at a table, fucked,
a furtive fogey corner-tucked
– there he is –
the Bru at the bar.
I’m surprised he even came this far.
Approach and belly up beside him.
‘We doing this?’ I ask. ‘We riding?’
Course, he says
and kills his whiskey,
heads for the door
and exits. I folly,
keeping my distance up to the Green,
where it’s safe to join him under his brolly.
He’s keen.
He practically drags me through the wasteland
behind the old slaughterhouse, the Boneland,
where bits of cow lie scattered, decaying,
and the odd hound laps at bone in vain
for any remaining
bits of meat
as we exit the Boneland,
cross the street
to The Vanguard, a hotel,
or so called.
Kit Rankin’s the man on the desk.
He’s bald
and pretty fucking thick.
Behind said desk is a hurley stick,
nail-studded to counter minor grief.
For major, it’s what ...
