Stain & Copper

STAIN


Dun! Such is the blackbird’s colour,
The female at least. As was the one,
Frantic to escape the pursuance of magpies,
That flew into the kitchen window.
Double glazing is unyielding, it’s bone,
Especially the eggshell skull, that shatters.
All I heard was the thump, dull as dun,
As if some passer-by had knocked just once.
Looking out I witnessed a blackbird, male,
Yellow beak twittering as its agitated head
Jerk from side to side, while on the ridge tile
Of the garage, the burly magpie perched,
Unmoved, pitiless gaze making its assessments
While the frantic accuser bobbed from bough
To fence post and back. An absence of cats,
I suspect, determined the magpie to swoop
And carry off what was now no more
Than carrion. The widower bird, dressed it seems
By nature for mourning, became silent, still,
Before launching on to the air and away,
Seeking, no doubt, for another mate, leaving
Me standing looking out through stained glass
Thinking, I’d better wipe that off
Before it dries on.

COPPER

The reason these spoil heaps are called spoil heaps
Is that they spoil every child who works them
For a few coppers earned gleaning copper
Nuggets from wasted earth wasting them.
Africa days are tinder days, so slack
Tee shirts and shorts and flip-flops seem just right.
Except, it’s cold before dawn when empty
Bellied walking begins, although sun’s up
By empty bellied arrival at the
Deep depression. Here, rock is more precious
Than life by a long fall, value holding
Every pick blow, shovel full, bead of sweat,
As it’s hauled in sacks out from hollowed ground.
All that labour weighed, recompensed in part,
Leavings left in those heaps where kids scrabble,
Not for fun as the game is for eating.
In this reception class the life lessons
Are hard, just as demanding as they could be.
Eight hours – no playtimes, no lunch break, no lunch!
Afternoons are sand and water, waist deep
In metallic slurry washing away
Impurities soaking in through bare skin,
Elixir, some say, of eternal youth,
Even those who grow up remain child-like.
Come home time and tired tots totter along
The long road home. Village elders,
Who aren’t so old really, hang heads heavy
With all their tribal tales of warriors,
Of mastering lions, of white lies believed,
Told too often beneath the copper sun
Of evening, a sun setting on bellies
Still bloated since precious prices have shrunk.
Each minor miner sleeps uneasily,
Dreaming of gingham frocks or shirts with ties,
And bells ringing out work, ringing in school,
Pennies ringing in pockets to buy books.
Beyond their dreaming stands another boy,
A few coppers cluttering his loose change,
In deep pockets of designer trousers,
Causing unnecessary discomfort.
So he picks out the offending pence
And casts it aside with enough disdain
To merit his mates’ approval. So what!
It’s as useless to him as algebra
And all the school bored days he endures.

                                             Dave Alton