The Floorshow at
the Mad Yak Café

By Colin Will



I tread carefully on frozen puddles,
the nightingale floors of winter,
between the iron silences of rigid clay
and the stiff snaps of tall buff grasses.

Over the boulders there's a cool lagoon,
a basin where salt and earthy waters mix.
Here gulls clamour and the steady eiders paddle;
here swans pose, afloat on their reflections.

Where the fringes of beach and grassland touch
I find, in a stony hollow, not much of a corpse -
spotted leather, stiff, small, almost flat,
fur-patched skull, empty sockets, and still bristles.

I walk through the tight-wrapped town
to the leisure pool, scan the swimmers
at the deep end for a girl with grace
and eyes like frozen tears.



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