Thursday, December 24, 2009



Summer daylight lifts off the water
—no prison pool or sock cider for me.

Under the motor way bridge.
All those catty shots at cans we took.
We all had bone handle daggers in our belts
and brothers
who’d grab our wrists,
lower us places

—wells, down from branches,
and show us paper round short cuts.
These winding routes we’d go down
slipping on pornos,

and send us to the day
after carnival hunt.

Next to the old park-keeper’s hut
Where we found the batman helicopter


Sat with no rock
to split
and no bait.

Waiting to see
if the seams’ll hold.
Sipping warm water
from a paint coated
tin cup.

Nee rock nee bait
and sleet on t’ screes
and t’ hail on t’ crags.
Boots wrapped up in plastic bags.

A’d fall frae t’ sky
calling yer name like
a battle cry on that frozen tarn

Helicopter and Honister Pass, previously unreleased poems, by Olly Todd.

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