Newts

great_crested_newt_derbyshire_cpt_philip_precey-e1509133751908

Newts
Tipton 1974: burnt rubber smell of factory along the canal,
Empty of birdsong and trees.
I search for newts, trail
Towpath cinders in the tunnel. Scan
The green-spotted slick surface
Broken by bike-wheels and yellow-handled trolleys.
Net-high ready for the joust.
Waiting for wet bubbles
And the dart-wriggle to the surface.
Newt: Part-fish, part-eel.
I stab down right under and lift the creature.
The wet net squirms alternately coal-black and inner-tube yellow
I scoop with feather fingers into the waiting jam jar.
Hold up to the light to see the belly-speckles,
Amidst the pondweed.
Amphibian alchemy in a world of drab.
Improbably tiny feet flat on glass hold
Me captive. I catch my breath at
The ultrasound-scan moment.
Industrial claxons call to lunch so
I don’t hear the bike before I see it.
Yellow chopper. A bike I wanted for months
A big boy, with something long under his arm.
And an expression: something between a knowing smile
And an eye for the future.
He throws the bike into the nettles and swings up,
All shoulders and ears and sleeves rolled over arms newly-formed.
He tells me to get each one of my catch,
And line them in a finger-high crack in the tunnel brickwork behind us.
And so I do. I worry about the dusty mortar on their skin.
He brings his arm from behind his back
The air rifle trained on the gently pulsing bodies
I watch him pull the trigger. Once. Twice.
After three all I see is writhing yellow puss
And a sound like something has broken in me
That will never be fixed. I‘m left with the smell of brick dust
And the gravel kicked up by retreating, wide-grip wheels.
And even as I drag the net along the pavement home,
I know I won’t tell a soul.

 

 

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