trout

A Pocket Full of Bones

Simon Williamson

Lyall Bay midsummer's evening
my dog pulls at the chain
I am sitting here drinking Coke
with a smoke in the light rain
& I am thinking ... this beauty, how can I convey it in words?
how can I explain the body hair of the hills, trees deep green
the way the sun flashes from behind the clouds
like a cinema screen?

I have been here a thousand times
sat upon this very step
watched Jim crush bottles between his teeth
then heart pounding take on the sea gulls until he is chest high
in Tangaroa's spittle; what a little thing is man, is beast
a feast of life from which we sink our hopes our dreams
& day by day grow older until we are left with a walking frame
hunched into a southerly taking the steps
we once took for granted towards the dairy
with pain as our joints become broken glass beer bottle orange decay

but it's just another day & he's just another old man;
with hair as white as sand he makes his stand

as I pass him I smile & hold the dog's lead tight
he is the shadow of my twilight
& I admire the way he mouths the word 'gidday'
& shuffles on home

I have seen a pocket full of bones
defeat death again
& retreat to the Heaven of his flat
an Evening Post tucked neatly under his arm

& he lights his pipe
& mutters to the cat
I am getting too old for this, you know girl
she curls at his feet & he reads about a world gone mad

in the sanity of lamplight
he gives up the fight

they found him a week later
he would smile if he knew

he finally made the paper