Poem 141

I wrote this in a spirit of solidarity support and admiration for farmers (on the East Coast I think) hit by repeated floods but hanging in … it was published in The Listener and drew one or two indignant letters – it appeared I had transgressed again (see Poem 27) this time by writing about a baby doing something weird and vaguely sinister ie. flying … I was about to open a play at BATS titled Flybaby so that didn’t augur particularly well …

( the baby is an analogue of Noah’s dove … as the next generation he returns with two symbols of the future – gorse (ongoing work and heartbreak) and fantail feathers (natural beauty of the place) … )

Young Farmer Of The Year

When the flood comes
we'll lift the baby up high
   you on a shelf
me standing in the sink
we'll watch the chairs and table go
like dodgems
brown cowshit water through the house
        then a cow itself
knocking at the door with its head

the landscape shortens
a ripple equals a fence
  a snag
might be the tractor

that's when we'll let the baby fly
     fat arms pumping
such a funny serious look on his face
he'll be back for his next bottle
   clutching a fistful of gorse
or a few blue feathers
                         off a fantail