Olivia Byard: Three Poems

Digbeth Bistro

(Stow-in-the-Wold)

 

I’m choosing chorizo salad

and the menu says cheerily,

“we’re in Digbeth Street—

so-called

because in the Civil War

blood here ran so deep

ducks swam in it—

hence duck-bath, dig-beth.”

 

And where the ducks swam, now

not a drop, or sign—except,

an olde-world menu-plaque

for top organic food.

I order my food,

pinch the skin on my arms,

wonder exactly how much blood—

but among chintz

and teapots, history’s

not in the mood.

 

Olivia Byard

 

 

 

 

Your Language

 

I turn into the morning’s

light-shafted hall, gold

beneath its clerestory—

and find my shoes, cleaned

with toes touching.

And they shine,

how they shine—each surface

and crack honed to a fine sheen—

­red rims rejuvenated like roses

or kisses, blue sides glossy

as water under-spilling

the foam of lurching, tipped, waves.

And I know,

I’ll kill, to find and hoard

a whole universe of objects—

quarks, cosmic clouds, ploughshares,

all grubby and impatient,

to be polished like this.

 

Olivia Byard

 

 

 

 

Muntjac Deer at Freeland

 

The despairing voice cries

“kill the lot”, as we hush

to watch a Muntjac step lightly

onto the lawn, its curved back

a delicate question mark.

“They gorge

themselves”, the tart voice persists

as we’re held by the sight

of this miracle of calm,

so close, so close.

 

(Of evolutionary interest

for their chromosome count,

descendants of escapes

from Woburn Abbey circa 1925,

these ancient orientals

have joined our herd and increased—

two have actually been seen near Belfast,

obviously with human help.)

 

“But so many make road-kill,”

I demur, as the dainty deer

muzzles short clover and grass.

“Good,” comes the vengeful reply,

“they eat all my plants!”

“Where

do they belong, who cares,”

I wonder aloud, watching

tiny migrant hooves barely dent

the damp ground.

 

Olivia Byard