Sweets and Things; Gybe-point

Sweets and Things

You mention sherbet lemons,

and we’re time-shaken back

to their sugary tart acidy smell,

fountain-fizzes and swizzlers

ghastly-blackened blackjack teeth.

You get on to

your churchyard tale—firemen

twice to the fire-crackered tree—

so I lob in my dodgy dens

dances plays rafts songs—

pride in a hand-made pirate flag.

Marbles, we agree! Real ones—

glass—

and skived-off games

first fag puffs, abandoned organ

failed piano—the gut-thrill of bikes,

ingenious uses for pocket knives—

the dark hovers around still

but with shifty eyes.

Gybe-point

When I hear he’s dying—

I ignore all strictures

and race to reach him.

On the ward

I worry he might heave up

from his death toils just

to dispense one last shattering curse,

and my sea-legs stumble—

but I face down the door

and there he is—basilisk eyes

thick white hair, pain—the ancient size

the sheer scale of him!

I edge slowly over

for a closer look as though

I haven’t encountered his like before—

stay a minute,

an hour, the last ebbing days—

and when his beast-breath slows

and stops, I rise, steady

the altered weight of him—

and leave.

Olivia Byard