Poacher’s Pocket
Crunching slowly through brittle frosted grass
with breath pulled tight in the lungs,
the moon peering through gnarled tree branches
& glinting icicles thicker than a finger
while the green waxed jacket snaps like a sail.
My fathaa, hair golden & curly as Roger Daltry,
slipped the cleek from his coat sleeve
& bent by a black pool with ice
sculpted into shapes sleek as glass
with the rush of the river in his ears like guitar static.
He saw Hendrix and The Who
at the Isle of Wight festival
in flared jeans & black cowboy boots & red t-shirt tan
& when I ask him how far has was from the stage
he jokes ‘aboot Birkenhead.’
It was a winter of power cuts, blackouts,
of orange candlelight flickering long shadows
up bare woodchip walls in thick silence
& my father made his way home through the darkness,
the dead weight of a gaffed trout in his poacher’s pocket
thumping his ribs in the regular rhythm of his stride.
* Jon Tait is a drunk, sheep rustler and mystic from Coquetdale, Northumberland. His latest chapbook Midnight at the snake motel is out from Proganda Press in the USA.
