A E Baker
The Rollers
If you held them in the sun,
where the glass had chipped,
they would glow green,
deep blue and red.
Tossed from hand to hand
they smacked against your palm,
making it tingle.
We’d get them from the tannery:
going up the jitty,
standing by the open workshop door
to watch the long-armed polishing machines
stroking the yellow thick sweet-smelling leather.
Sometimes
the dusty-aproned man
would holler sod orf sunshine
over the clanking hoarse belt-slapping din.
But sometimes
he would throw an old worn roller
and, wincing, we would catch it;
grin our thanks.
Once I showed one to my dad.
He said
What bloody good is it?
Page(s) 49
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