TREGUIER
A boy who died was hidden in my thoughts
That week, but I was too ashamed, or young,
To say. I sat, set loose in vest and shorts
Outside the café, toying with trite tongue-
twisters, annoying poor sisters, who took
to talking more advanced Francais than I
could match. Our mother, buried in a book
would gently snap or, sometimes, fiercely sigh.
One afternoon, to quell my threat, we crossed
the square. The old cathedral burned with peace.
And I, just twelve, at once grew old, and lost
My grip. Hot tears, not for myself, released.
I’d be a child so many times again,
But grace and wisdom first waylaid me then.
BRIDGETOWN
So … first, I burnt, of course - a patch on shin,
A swirl on wrist, the gift of cream applied
In haste, yet when I turned that wrist to spin
I spun for fun, arc-sharp, packed the off side
And earnt a scalp. Then – Desmond Haynes
Strode to the crease, two decades past his best,
of course, our beaming host, but class remains -
His friendly knockabout, my prime, my test.
I bowled … as well as I have done, and twice
I forced false shots, but twice the chance was spilled.
When I withdrew to calm my wrath, the price
Of fate and failure was at once distilled.
A towering strike up, down, through hands, through shades,
skull crack,
Des, laughing transport, and my prize that won’t come back.
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