The Year of the Turtle
We carried it home in a salty pail;
the bones of a monster.
Freddy said it was an alien;
his dad had seen their ships
shining like sixpences
in the sky.
When we tipped the bucket,
seawater and bones slopped.
For a moment
the loosely strung carcass swam.
I wondered if it was a small mermaid,
or a mermaid’s daughter.
Freddy poked it with his foot.
“Look at its head,” he said;
“it’s got no teeth.”
That settled it. We agreed
it was a drowned space kid.
That night
I dreamed it’s leathery beak
opened and sang of
deep green star-pools.
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