why this
crumpled overcoat in summer
this podium reserved for talking
i listen to the river, to seagulls
to this dishevelled person
with monuments for bones, who gambles away the hills & lakes
risks losing what he breathes
he rolls in his own contours, plays his hand, hopes it
will define the person he really is
his childhood slides through a clarinet’s thirst for hitting high notes
i listen to the river & watch
for rain
a commuter train scorches past
on the platform a small boy bites into his granny’s apple.
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Iain Britton is an Aotearoa New Zealand poet. His latest collection is “The Intaglio Poems” (Hesterglock Press).
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This article appears in the 27 Jan 2021 issue of the New Statesman, The Lost