A Boy's Own Story

A Boy's Own Story

Start of the season and
Stumps and bats thump in cricketbags
Down the Belfry stairs.
The heavy roller's stuck
in deep grass under the walnut.
Dapper Father Malachy in his soutane
Directs the shirehorses from Preparatory B
A swot mechanic aims an oil-gun on the move,
Specs misted like Biggles' goggles
When his engine's shot to blazes.
Bockety- bock it squirts,
Father Malachy is in the line of fire.

My mother and her friends take tea,
Meditating on the lesson from Sunday's Mass
I'm home, not quite wanted
But asked about my day.
Look shyly at their legs,
Nylons, knees and careful bits of thighs
Mrs Higgins with a pale pink dab
Stopping a ladder on her right
Yesterday on her bike in the village
She had it on her left.
"Father Malachy said "Fuck!" today" I said
I thought they'd like to know.

Out to the kitchen by the ear,
My shock worse than theirs,
My mother a windmill of thrashing
I see a lifetime's worth of stocking-tops
Made to beg for mercy on my knees
Then back to apologise to the congregation
Who are mostly stony-faced.
Only Mrs Higgins gives me half a wink
Holds my hand for a second on her thigh.
I feel the little pill of her suspender,
A nubbin of desire.
"He's got a lot of growing up to do," my mother says.