Poetry Magazines - The best collection of poetry magazines online - Simon Armitage

       Sammy lay flat on the ground, the edge of the bank cutting into his chest.  Sunlight filtered through the willow leaves.  He had rolled up his shirt and jersey above his right elbow and was trailing his fingers in the stream, watching the small ripples circle then disappear.  Somehow the shirt cuff had freed itself and was cold and wet against his skin.  Droplets clung to the fine hairs on his forearm.

       Sammy rolled over on to his back, plucking a piece of grass as he did so.  Carefully he stretched it between his thumbs, then raised his hands to his mouth and blew.  A shrill whistle pierced the air.  Two wood pigeons rose beating wings against branches and leaves.  The grass split and he flung it away.  He closed his eyes.

       Now he was aware of small sounds, buzzings above and cracklings in the grass,  Sammy imagined himself lying mortally wounded.  His blood was trickling over the bank, streaking the water and being carried downstream.  The guards on the bridge would see it and send out a search party.  By the time they found him it would be too late but they’d see two other bodies - no, three - the Japanese he’d killed as they’d crept through the undergrowth.  He’d been unable to dodge the sword of the last one though.  It had sliced down.  Blood had spurted from the artery in his neck.

       He put his hand up and pressed two fingers just below his jawline.  He could feel his pulse beating steadily.  He was glad to be alive, to be eight years old and that it was Saturday, no school.  He rolled over on to his stomach again and, pushing up the errant cuff, lowered his arm into the stream.

       Sammy gazed into its depths.  The sun had shifted and now a single ray danced on a stone lying on the stream’s bed.  It was more than a stone.  It was like Excalibur, waiting to be pulled out.  It must have lain there for thousands of years and no one had ever noticed it.  Smooth, oval and dark green, its surface was networked with tiny red lines, like the veins on his grandpa’s cheeks.  The pebbles round it were small and dark.

       It didn’t seem too deep just there.  Clinging to a large tuft of grass with his left hand, Sammy plunged his right arm into the cold water.  The stone wasn’t as near as he’d thought.  His forehead broke the surface.  He closed his eyes, held his breath and immersed his face, his fingers scrabbling among the pebbles.  The stone must be there.  It could not have moved.

       Yes!  He’d found it!  Grasping it tightly, Sammy swung his body upwards, water pouring down his face, soaking his jersey.  Water ran down his right arm as he uncurled his fingers.

       Cradled in the hollow of Sammy’s hand, the stone lay.  Formed and polished through countless years by the slow-moving stream, it gleamed in the sunlight.  He felt its smoothness against his skin.  It fitted so perfectly that he knew it was he who had been sent to find it.  It was his talisman.  He knew also that everything was going to be all right.  He’d be back with his Mum in London.  His Dad would come back from the war.

       Sammy wrapped the stone in a dock leaf and pushed it down into the pocket of his shorts.  Then, picking up a stick, swishing at nettles and brambles, he galloped his imaginary pony back to the farm.