Defrosting a Chicken by Simon Armitage

He was spark out, but at noon, on the beach,
entertained the thought that a fly might land
on a tingle of nerves, just beyond reach.
Save him connecting his brain to his hand.

Donkeys down on the shore were refugees
or latter-day saints, and along Pine Walk
pines grew obliquely, charmed by the salt breeze.
Wax-coated needles wouldn't sink. Loose talk.

On the prom, retired expatriates swarmed
around shrinkwrapped heaps of the Daily Mail.
Waves were never the tide but ripples, spawned
by moon-coloured ships of war. The sun's nail

by dusk - rusty, blunt - useless against ice.
For supper he ate the sleep from his eyes.



(to Contents)



.

No comments: