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'