FUGACITY 05 - David Ingram

Whoomff . . . the bloody idiot

Whoomff . . . the bloody idiot nearly
took my ear off, plummeting

out of control, how it missed
the boat I don't know, a great splash

beside me, gone before I got a good
look. Like a magician it was, here

one moment, gone the next, back
all wet, a bloody great fish in its beak,

just flew off without saying
anything . . . . . that's Gannets for you.

In the Café, Ponsonby Road

My mouth sups
from the bowl of coffee,
my fork hovers above the carrot cake, imitating

the hawk's beak,
and my inner eye remembers the yellow lines, centred
on the road, and the sign asserting

that speed kills. I see the white horse, knee-deep
in grass and dandelions,
unaware of the ducks, decaying

among flies and maggots, unmoved
at the sound of wings, the shadow
hovering above bones, the feathers
crushed along the tarmac.

In the café, my companion asks
quietly, if she may scavenge
from my plate.


David Ingram	Fugacity 05 Online Poetry Anthology index

Whoomff . . . the bloody idiot Whoomff . . . the bloody idiot nearly took my ear off, plummeting out of control, how it missed the boat I don't know, a great splash beside me, gone before I got a good look. Like a magician it was, here one moment, gone the next, back all wet, a bloody great fish in its beak, just flew off without saying anything . . . . . that's Gannets for you. In the Café, Ponsonby Road My mouth sups from the bowl of coffee, my fork hovers above the carrot cake, imitating the hawk's beak, and my inner eye remembers the yellow lines, centred on the road, and the sign asserting that speed kills. I see the white horse, knee-deep in grass and dandelions, unaware of the ducks, decaying among flies and maggots, unmoved at the sound of wings, the shadow hovering above bones, the feathers crushed along the tarmac. In the café, my companion asks quietly, if she may scavenge from my plate.