That ice cracked: one foot put
pounds of pressure on the spot
lines of fracture scattered, a boy's foot, scarf-wound
neck, eyes popped.
At once still, a pond so still.
Instantly, ears full of splintering, sklintering
shock. Boy under ice: at five, I'm too young
scared of what it means.
Aunt Jean next door untied her apron, stopped.
It's Willie McGinty from No.1, ice-skating the Durrie Dam.
Sometimes in my mind, through the thick, clear floor
below, I've watched his wildly-waving hands,
waving goodbye, but for what new land?
c. R A Scott,2017
D3,18th Feb 2017.
Topic(s) of this poem: memory
Form: Free Verse
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.