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Mike Barlow

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Heirloom

It’s a single barrel, bolt action two two calibre
with an axe mark on the stock where the old man
once had to fend off mad Will, who used to work for us
when he was sober. We’ve always kept it in the same place,
underneath the big bed, wrapped in an old oil jacket,
the bolt and box of cartridges on the top shelf
of the kitchen cupboard, back left corner.

Last time I used it was the summer night
I heard the crump of dynamite down by the river.
As I reached the wood a big moon jumped out
between the clouds and of the two figures I saw
one I could swear had a familiar limp.
By this time I was shaking so much my finger snatched the trigger
and I fired at the sky. Suddenly it was dark again.
  
In the morning the fluted bedrock the water
only covered in flood looked cracked and scarred,
twigs and bodies of the smolt they’d have no use for
floated in the pool. I found a torn net
stashed hurriedly beneath the boundary hedge
and the top field gate where the snatch bar sticks
left open, the stone I use to wedge it fifty yards downhill.

I live alone out here, don’t take much to visitors,
except for Mad Will’s nephew; he limps up from time to time,
leaves a dozen eggs for a bottle or two of homebrew.
I’ve noticed lately how he looks me over,
a sly squint trying to work out what I know. I’ll tell him one day
all that shotgun’s ever hit in three generations
is his uncle’s axeblade and a poacher’s moon.

 

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