Fishing For Newts

Not fish in the water

But newts, as granddad leaned

To pluck them like jewels.

There on my knees, I practiced the art

Of catching a palmate

In the palm of my hand.

Then

Between finger and thumb

The warm liquid flux

Of thrashing life, the thump

Of pulse against skin – before I could write

Before I had summarised love

In a few sharp strokes.

No, this was tenderness

Taught, by the rippling throat

Of the newt smelling death

In the folds of my coat,

The damp anorak clung

 With the tension

I had learned by love

To let him live.

For this was the ten-year old affair

Waiting for dinner

Seeking consolation from fortunate hunger

The grinding tin in the kitchen.

Instead turning the newt

Like a key, over

In that old lock of waiting

And the sound of gravel shifting

On the roads of the estate.

It was not the cheap affection of television

Not the nautical stench of a catch

No wax crayon on the mouth of a clown

But the sudden consolation, the flash

Of amphibious underbelly.

The spinning of cold stone

Lodged in my memory

A punch of colour, flecked brown

The oozing yolk of summer, intensity

Summarised there

 In the newts stomach, burning

With orange. The fear

Was mutual, sharp, sweet

Of two lives unaccustomed

Half apologetic, craving more time.

Never since have I seen so full

A colour

Now even the advertisements, imitations

Seem like leaf litter

That granddad was sweeping

As I held

Meaning, feeling

Right,

Right there.

Yet the fish was plated

The kettle screamed

And eating after I wondered, what would express better

The singe of emotion

Of that orange skin.

The love and the longing

And poured childhood in

To that fiery lozenge.

For it was a time of realisation

Monday at 5pm

Haunting with feeling

Between cold blood and blue

The repeated segregation of

‘Wash your hands after’

But love was dangerous then, wild, wistful

Now dirty all the way through.