Michael

 

Michael

 

There’s evil in those hills,

dropping in venom pearls

to poison boys and girls.

It passes through generations

carried like worms in the blood,

rears and hoods

like the cobra would

on its way to kill the sleepers,

dispensed to them in swallowed pills,

and the tallow cheeks 

of John Stuart Mill.

 

Dobson doubts he will be heard

or even a Kentucky bluebird

could get a message to Michael now:

Imagine it - swooping high

over Gringley’s low peaks,

swifting down past Drakeholes

where somewhere deep below

his Chesterfield Canal sleeps

cut and covered in tunnel deep,

sluiced its way from crooked spire,

to Idle’s drowsy meanders flow,

where they lie coiled, antique,

and On! On! To Everton,

past The White Swan,

where once upon two brothers greet.

 

Michael had thick curls,

a dimpled cheek when he smiled,

his mind open to any dreams

Dobson would pour into his ear

like summer’s melting ice cream,

or gold into an ingot’s mold.

Freewheeling and rattling

downhill on his rusty bike at speed,

bought for a ten-shilling note

from some broad stroked bloke

where it lay recumbent

in his back street garage,

to bring such childish treasure

as Sunderland thrashing Leeds,

pulling Bremner and Lorimer

here and there like dandelion seed.

 

One day dawned as all days do,

with clouds across the sun,

something wicked this way comes,

an exam, unexpected, unforetold,

adults watched, with eyes that rolled,

plus whispered spells of eleven:

It’s such a grand old age

their anxious children scan the text,

read first or second best,

something shrouded, something bleak

something Dobson dare not speak.

 

And later, in old Harvey’s study,

thick spittle gathered on his lower lip,

to the gathered boys, he let slip

his prognosis – Michael wept.

Dobson recalls his brand-new steed,

in red and black livery;

comfortable seat, three gears for speed,

how he came to believe

he was better now and first class,

Michael’s Scunthorpe; he’s premier league,

with a certificate of pedigree,

and this is how all evil feeds.

 

Now years have passed, Dobson thinks

he’d like to meet Michael for a drink,

recalls after the fights and jealousy;

some shy smiles of forgiveness came,

but what was broken forever remained,

in damned black spots and tear stains.