Poetry

Alan Gould: Five Poems

Lucas Windfall   Lucas Windfall quit his cradle, took with him his sherry fiddle. I met him where the river flowed and woke into the trance he bowed.   Lucas bowed a slanting deck, I hornpiped on it for his sake and leapt so high in that no-place the stars were snowflakes on my face.   Lucas played me to the harbours where his tunes drew cut-throat neighbours. Our silly chins wagged at the sky as Lucas played his hush-a-bye.   Lucas bowed a merry girl, warm afternoons of sexual marl. The streamers from his fiddle string could prompt delicious…

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