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

       Eddy Seymour had blond hair, a big belly, big nose, big chin and a sturdy green bike that looked like him.

       White and skinny in trunks, four of us played down the millpond. I was ten, the only one who couldn’t swim.

       Our older brothers arrived on bikes, Eddy among them, stood in a line on the quay. It was decided to throw us swimmers in.

       Barefoot on the stones the other three swimmers didn’t take much catching, turned the shoves into elegant dives. I couldn’t risk getting caught, writhed and dodged, snarled at Eddy and made the stone steps to the river.

       In his shoes and trousers Eddy Seymour couldn’t follow me down to the river’s mud. We exchanged insults and abuse.

       The game should have ended there, but like a grown-up he talked of me being cheeky and of showing me a thing or two. My clothes, ‘That’ll teach you’, came fluttering down. Weeping my rage I picked them out of the black ooze.

       Eddy sat astride his bike as I came stooping back across the cobbled causeway. I grabbed a sheath knife from my friend’s clothes pile and went at Eddy Seymour with a tearsmeared smile.

       ‘I’ll cut you down to size’. I flicked the point at his face, swiped the blade across his belly.

       Falling backwards he dropped his bike, and ran. I was known to be mad. Eddy took no chances. His steelcapped shoes sparked up a lane above the quayside houses. My naked soles brought me to a hopping stop. Eddy made the mistake though of jeering at me from above. Frustration had me cry out and I ran for his bike tyres with the blade.

       Bikes though were property. My brother tried to stop me. He was sensible too.

       Alone I learnt to swim, waited until the blue evening tide was almost in and the quay deserted. Quickly changing behind the sheds I ran across the causeway and dived, death or victory, silver bubbles in the brown all round.  And up I came, up

                                   and I swam.

       The last time I saw Eddy Seymour was in court. I was being done for riding my motorbike without lights. He - big nose, big belly, hair waterflattened - was being sworn in as a Special Constable.

       Us good guys rarely win.