31. May, 2020

'The Butcher's'

Blinkered by a headscarf,
Head butting into the wind
Always pushing, pushing back,
My mother, with shopping bags,
Comes up from King Cross,
Me beside her.
The clouds burden us again,
Hanging over the black of Beacon Hill
And melting their rain into chimneys.
The butcher cut up shiny kidneys
With big, bloody hands, smiling.
“Lovely piece of meat,” he’d said,
With an approving slap on a leaky packet,
As he did every time we went.
And although his apron was streaked
With animal gore,
There was no sign in the sawdust
That next day he would,
With those arms fit from chopping bone,
Attack a man with an axe instead
In a vengeful feud on the moors.
He was bluff, middle aged and freckled,
Yet still he ran amok
Like a Heathcliffe in the heather,
On fire with old rivalry,
Or perhaps his Viking blood was stirred.
After all, his name was Eric, we later concurred,
Astounded by 'The Courier's' news.

.

Ruth Enright