Three Poems

The Action

i.m. Alan Hawke

                                                        Slow work,
you would think, building… I never knew
it could be so passionate until you threw
your fast bowler’s back into plastering
our living room wall.
                  
                                                        Some spell
you put in that afternoon, one continual
shoulder roll of the hawk over the
wall until it was sheer in the
original sense and shone.
                  
                                                        That night
from the sofa you’d glimpse it again,
run up on a spliff and a couple
of cans and throw yourself
into oblivion.
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