Wednesday, February 18, 2009

excerpt from The Epics

Temming a winter mornin.
The collie coat upon my back.
Ice on pond. Mill still as stone.
The children teeming forth like froth.
Me and my gang. The steely sea. Forbidding
Spume skin on us all.
Boats moored and gently rocking by the dock.
Elsewhere were we.
On ice, on mill pond. The mill still as stone.
Saturday morn gathered near the ice.
Lacing skate and wrapping stick.
The preamble for the riot.
Sport and shoot, and sorry ankle.
For keeping on the goal.
Our shouts and thrusts.
Our hitting of the ice.
The light upon our heads.
The slip and fall, the crash and rise.
The puck like fish beneath our eye.
Go youngsters in delight.

They shoot, they score.
They sweat and swear like fathers on the shore.
Old drunken pukes appraising in the skein.
Sorry old fucks can never stand on ice again.
And maters come by with oranges and thermos.
Stop! Time!
We eat, we drink, we steam.

Once upon a time.
And hey did you lose a tooth?
Yeah. Fucking brother
punched it from my face when he played one
Saturday morn still pissed from night before.
I took him down, so he took me down,
in a rage him so much bigger and a fuck.

Ah, home, where family reigns your map.
Ice. On mill pond. A winter morn.
The sea in distance grey.
The ships all tied and true.
All go to watch the water rise, the water fall.

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