154

It had been lamed at
            Some point during the night
                        In the foreleg and it was
Half-lying and struggling up
            From the bank of the ditch
                        Below the fence in the mud
Of the end of the pasture.
            It would stumble up and then
                        Lose purchase in the soil
And have to put weight
            On the leg and slide
                        Back down in its own track.
There was blood darkening
            On its leg and smeared
                        In the cold dew on the grass.
It was big, though still a
            Calf, and its ragged fat was
                        Shuddering as it moved.
Gouts of its breath in the
            Harsh air misted visibly
                        Like shalecoloured flowers.
I stared at it trying hard
            To think how it had
                        Happened and what to do.
In the end I ran back and
            Brought Silas and pa,
                        And we blinded it with a
Hessian sack over the head,
            Bound the leg and hauled it
                        Out, bellowing like a walrus.

153

Johnny wake up.
            Go to bed Dew, it's
                        Too late. Go to bed.
I can't get to sleep.
            Five after two. Will
                        You just please go back
To your room. If you
            Can't get to sleep just lie
                        There and count. Go on.
Is Lou really sick?
            When you are old enough
                        To have to work, I am
Going to come in your
            Room at stupid o'clock
                        And wake you up every
Night. Then you are
            Going to be the sick one.
                        Yeah but Lou, is she sick.
Yeah, she's sick.
            How bad is she?
                        I don't know. She's layed up.
Is she going to get better?
            Dewey was slightly visible
                        Because there was some light
But he couldn't see John.
            I don't know.
                        Okay. What about mama?
Well what about her.
            I don't know. Okay, night.
                        Goodnight Dew. Go sleep.

151

I was out in the yard
            And Dewey came in all
                        Dusty from the field and
He saw me but he went
            Indoors. I was cleaning
                        My workcoat on the wall.
Silas came out and he
            Spilled a pail from his
                        Doorway onto the flags.
The water weaved from
            It and guttered to the
                        Leeside wall of the shed.
It was getting dark
            And he looked up at me
                        His eyes bright and damp
From the houselight,
            His bucket slung underarm
                        Smoking a short cigarette.
I looked at him and we
            Walked over behind the
                        Shed and he handed me
One and lit it with a
            Pocketbook match and threw
                        It out in the moving grass.
I sheltered it with my
            Hands and smoked it and
                        He watched me smoke it and
Talked about his younger
            Brother tired and oldly and
                        Smoked, looking on the field.

150

I ran down out of
            The woods into the rut
                        Of the track and went
Down it to the field
            And got over the fence
                        And the cows at the end
Had their faces in the
            Earth of the stream and
                        Turned to me passing on
Dripping and I crashed
            Through the stream and
                        The bank and far fence
Cutting myself and I
            Fell in the deep grass
                        And my wounds and I
Breathed in the hot grass.
            My skin was wet and red.
                        I destroyed heads of
Dandelion and they swung
            Into the air and I sat
                        As they made the dark line
Of the wood, and some
            Were in my mouth like
                        White cotton. I breathed,
Slower. As I walked back
            The dark was coming into
                        The cold of the stream and
The lights were aching down
            Far away from the road
                        And it was still and tired.

149

I would wake late in the
            Night and hear shouting
                        Coming through the floor
And the long sound of
            Ma crying and the fall of
                        Papa's boots on the timber
Of the kitchen floor.
            The sound of his low talk
                        Was worse than the raised
Voices and I could hear
            My chest going and pain
                        In my throat and bones.
The air was thick and hot
            That summer and Lou
                        Was in the back room sick.
I knew John would be
            Awake through the wall. He
                        Would hear their voices.
I would shudder for a long
            Time and then go to sleep
                        And wake up hours later in
The damp and watch the first
            Light and the sparrows cross
                        The air between the treetops
And I would lie out of the
            Window with my head back
                        Below the ledge and the sky
Under me. A soft rain and
            My breathing and the last stars
                        And the air was in a cage.

148

I would wake up before
            Eliot or ma or pa or Silas
                        And sit and drink a glass
Of water at the table
            And wash the glass and go
                        Out in the half light
Past the sheds of half
            Woken animals where they
                        Moved in their dark hay
And through the pasture
            And the horse stood asleep
                        To the edge of the woods.
The birds used to wake so
            Early, and sing and call
                        For hours. I would go into
The trees where they were
            Moving and they sounded
                        Like a great quiet machine.
The woods seemed to fall
            And sigh to me like the sea.
                        I would come back
Where Silas was putting
            His overalls on in the
                        Grey yard and he would grin
His white teeth and pink
            Lips and dark skin and say
                        Get you inside young boy.
Standing in white dirty
            Overalls and bare feet in
                        The pale cream of light.

147

Eliot used to run away
            In the woods up the
                        Hill behind the house some
Nights and I would lie
            And listen to papa getting
                        Up and speaking to ma
And the lights come on
            In the hall and water
                        Sounding in the tin basin,
And papa and Silas would
            Go out and the door
                        Would clatter in its frame
As their lights climbed
            The hill in darting
                        And broken-up raybeams.
Their voices would be soft
            In the woods and I knew
                        That ma was still asleep.
I would wake up to
            Papa crashing around with
                        Eliot and Eliot yelling at
Him. His teary, shaking
            Childvoice. I would watch
                        Out the window Silas lock
The outside door and walk
            Across the yard to where he
                        Slept and his light vanish.
Ma would come in and
            I was not asleep but still
                        And lean in and kiss me.

146

For Eliot the shapes of
            Them all fled before him
                        And his body fled from
Him and the light was
            Dark and bright in the
                        Chipped plaster coving and
The ceiling was low like
            A shell and their faces flew
                        Away in his tremors.
For John looking at
            Eliot convulsing on the bed
                        The shape of him was all
There was as if his
            Whole had broken into
                        Only several white motions.
And the light too for
            Him was hollow like in
                        A shell with a candleflame.
But it was hallowed in
            The light of what he could
                        Not know what it was:
Death. The blue hills and
            Far off broken mountains
                        Veered in rain in the candle-
Light from the half drawn
            Drapes of bleached silk, the
                        Membrane of doily cotton.
The rucked up bedclothes
            Looked to John like wings
                        At his brother's shoulders.

145

Eliot was younger than
            Me by two years and he
                        Was a year dead before
Ma had Lou and then
            Dewey a year after that.
                        Dew was born with gold
Hair and bright as a fat
            Clean potato and our
                        Father was very glad.
Lou caught a fever about
            A year or so ago and
                        She died of it and father
Has still not come back
            From the walk he went on
                        For several hours that
Night, though he sits
            Each morning at his
                        Cereal bowl plain enough.
The milk in his beard
            Very white and his eyes
                        Empty and cornflower blue.
Lou's room is still vacant.
            I have my own room
                        And Dewey sleeps in Eliot's
Though he sometimes comes to
            Mine in the night, his head
                        Afire white and blonde in
The darkness. He is
            A frail and beautiful
                        And lonely old kid.

144

We carried Eliot to bed
            In the lap of our
                        Arms, mounted the stairs
And him a shivering
            White shape with his
                        Fat yellow teeth biting at
Nothing in the dimness
            Of the passage and his
                        Body in a white sheet
Scattered with dry oats
            He had been eating at
                        The table in papa's chair.
He had been convulsing
            For a half hour and ma
                        Had laid him down on
The plain clean tile
            And poured milk through
                        His bloody, bitten lips
Before we tried to
            Move him at all.
                        It was the evening.
He had always been
            A pale sickly kid,
                        Born late and badly.
The doctor had looked
            At him for only a
                        Minute before he spoke.
This was several years
            Before Dewey or my sister
                        Lou had been born.