The Emergency Drill

 We sat in the belly of the aeroplane
and held out for sirens to swerve across the grass;
men with cutting gear and masks.
 No-one came.

On a back seat, Mr.
 Phillips bandied jokes to pass
the time; the dark air cooling our arms
and scents like burrs stitched in hair, clothes.

In the distance we swore we heard alarms
before HQ radioed the fire-drill’s close,
and we emerged still feigning breaks and scrapes
led by teacher bandaged and bad at the hip,
attentive to this miraculous escape.

Our shadows thin creatures from the Mother Ship.


*

That view of Bob Phillips’ dance down the steps
comes back when I think of him alone
on the fairway, trailing scarves of breath
as he lugs clubs beyond the lake-side ninth for home,
and feels sharp tingles, then a rip-tide through his arm
that swells to pains across his chest.

To stand there, cry out above the calm,
and wait for hands, a touch – but Bob is destined
to collapse in thick grass, lie wide for the day
in a hide and seek open to everyone.

No-one for miles comes close to play.

His big face surprised the world is taking so long.

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