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

The cross on the airman’s grave was a propeller. Here and there lay interesting paper wreaths. A pot-bellied church with smashed windows peeped out from behind the maples. There was a circular bench round a linden tree.

   The father and his boys were walking through the cemetery to the river. Mother was buried behind the bushes, where the hops grew. ‘We’ll go to her afterwards,’ said the father, ‘or we’ll be late for the waves.’

   There was the sound of a hooter. ‘Quick!’ shouted the boys. ‘Quick!’ – the father walked faster. They all began to run. Over the gate stood an angel, cut from a sheet of tin. In their hurry, they forgot to stop and, looking upwards, admire it.

   They ran down the little path; the hooter sounded again. ‘We’ll be late,’ urged father. Hearts pounded, heads too.

   Throwing off their jackets, they reached the bank and, pulling legs out of trousers, dropped to the ground: they’d made it. There was a rumbling to their right, the smoke drew nearer, and from behind the bushes appeared the ship’s white prow. They jumped up, danced about, waved their hats. The majestic captain was giving orders. The paddle-wheel churned, foam hissed, the wake seethed. They squatted down; on the deck were women, watching. Looking sideways at the women, they put their hands between their knees and squeezed them together.

   ‘Smack!’ went the first wave. ‘Quick!’ – they all leaped in.

   The river was like a sea. ‘Ooh!’ people cried, and leaped up and down. ‘Ooh!’ cried father, holding the boys in his arms and jumping. ‘Ooh, ooh!’ cried the boys, flinging their arms round his neck and squealing.

   The waves stopped. Father, hooting like a steamer, crawled on all fours through the water. The boys rode on him. Then he washed, and the boys took turns scrubbing his back, like grown-ups. Standing up again, he looked himself over and checked his muscles: in the evening he was seeing Lyubov Ivanovna.
‘But at least I’m not a bad father,’ he thought.

   They walked back slowly. ‘Otherwise,’ said father, ‘why get in the water at all?’ Climbing back up the path took a long time. They blew dandelions and tore petals off daisies. They turned and looked down again. Cows were walking along the bank, mirrored in the river. Sometimes they mooed. Lights were being lit at the river-station; they glimmered. The sun set. There were not yet any stars. The angel
over the gate had gone dark.

   ‘You wait here,’ father said by the linden tree. ‘I‘ll be back.’ They sat down, taking off their caps, and held hands. A mosquito whined.

   Bushes turned black, blurring together. Tops of crosses poked out above them. The hops glowed. Father stopped and stood with his hat off. He had come because of Lyubov Ivanovna and was at a loss for words: what could he say, and how? The little boys felt frightened. Under the ground lay the dead. Someone might look out
from the broken window of the church, an arm might reach out. It was good when father came back.

   Soft with dust, the streets were pleasant to walk on. Here and there were street lamps. The stalls were lit up. In yards women were talking to sedate cows that had returned with the herd. Firemen had struck up a waltz in the town garden. Father bought a cigar and two spice cakes. Silent, they enjoyed them.