Courage
The man arrives in a big car, dark windows.
We run and hide, except for Father, who is brave.
He stands there in loose corduroy trousers,
pigs squeal and run around his feet; the man
gets out, he’s wearing a suit, I can’t hear.
He pushes my father’s shoulder, he staggers back.
I want him to stand up to the man, but he doesn’t.
His hands are at his sides.
A chicken flaps down from the window ledge
and the cockerel struts about, proud. Father
lowers his head. The man lifts his hand, Father shrinks.
I’ve seen enough. I gather the little ones, out we go
along the lane, claggy and stinking with cow’s piss.
I tell them Father is play-acting, buying us time.
Next time the man comes round
we’ll kill him. They like that. They’ve seen Father
cutting a squealer’s throat. They know he’s brave.
I lead them down the mill race,
into danger. They’ll follow me anywhere, this is just water,
full of noise. Pick it up, it slips through your fingers.
Previously published in 'How to Win at King's Cross'