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

Thinking of death, I think of fish.
I think of the goldfish I had as a kid;
how I found them floating belly-up
in their bowl, their gold sides bleached
to a sickly white, their scales open,
rasp to the touch.

Thinking of fish, I think of other things;
of the tortoise I was given on my tenth birthday
and found the day after split
like an egg, his wet innards
squeezed through the vent
in his polished back.

Or the day the old dog died;  how I’d held
him on the table, watching the blue vein
swell, felt him stiffen as his eyeballs rolled
and his life slid out.  How I’d gone home
absence following me like a cloak.

Thinking of absence, I think of you, Rosemary.
The hard impact of the car as you,
going home, had stepped out into the road.
How after school I’d gone to the undertakers,
saw you stretched out in your cotton frock,
your hair scraped back, the thin
white broken box of your forehead
livid in spots

and for days afterwards, for weeks, for months,
death pushed its shocked face before my eyes,
and tore at my sleep.

So now, thinking of death, I think instead
of life.  A flicker of bright fish beneath
the water, bodies tensing, testing
reflexes, conjuring ripples.
Or a tortoise, its tight head tasting
the air, the cool blink of an eyelid
eating light.  Or a dog carving
a warm shape in its basket, the drum of a tail
caressing the floor.

And I think of you, Rosemary.  How
we burned candles, lit up secret, forbidden
places, talked in low voices, rehearsing life.

Your dreams were always of horses.  That’s
how I think of you.  Riding
across familiar fields, always
always coming home.