Ice-Oh! Poem by Jan Owen

Although we loved the gentle horse whose nose
of worn-out velvet nudged us for rye-grass,
Antarctica come to the suburbs was what drew
us through the heat; we trotted by its slow
and straining bulk or swung on the creaking cart.
Only the iceman galloped―through each gate,
bent double over the hessian-covered block
that weighed him down the side, around the back
and in with never a knock, boots puddling mud
over lino, to clunk on the chest-edge, teeter and thud.
Hot-foot, hot-foot, on the road we'd wait,
breathing the wet sack smell, the oats, the sweet-
sour yellow dung, force-feeding weeds to Horse
to earn our chunks of slithery dripping ice.
‘Now clear off kids―and mind the bleedin' wheels.'
So perched on the fence we kicked our heels,
watching the cart lurch up to Duthy Street.
Johnny always waved as it turned right
and into just a faint clip-clop applause;
while fast as we could suck or slurp, our ice
was licked off at the corners by the sun
or sent in shivery runnels down our skin,
trickling chocolate drops across the dirt.
And when we held the chips up glistening bright,
greyly among the frozen bubble swarms
there went a crooked mile between the palms
to question-mark the light. Beyond us, time
hung round on the wall; at every touch was home―
green streets, my brother's laugh, a sunny day,
only half-grasped, forever melting away.