Mother

Shoot me, he said. His eyes were baying
for the fox pistol in my twitching hand. The bandage
of red sky on his eyeballs.

There is a shore of caustic, wizening over the fat
coast of his flesh. Fishing boats patrol it,
whistling for the catch.

The lard around his heart. It suppurates softly,
like a weasel drinking water, out of some
stump of a Cornish pool.

Heligoland in his deafened head, where the dark
lollop of speech is lodged, and the frizz of his
motherís touch is electric.

Somewhere in a copse, in an apron, starched
and bleached and sweetheart, the rinsing spit
of kisses like cambric.

The stripe of the fenceís shadow where he lies
out of breath from laughter, forgetful of
brothers and sisters and cousins.

Harbours his guts, when bailing the backwash
from the ruinous boat. We went rowing over
to the broken shingle.

Dear Mother, The filth here. Seen to be believed.
You would not. Iíll be as right as rain,
ninepence, Iím only winded.

The milk in a chipped cup is daisy. In the mist
your voices lug themselves towards me with all
the sanctity of spooks.

Remember the barnyard, where the air drifted
from rook-dusk to fields on fire, and the thud
of a winter morning, where

I rode across on the bicycle, standing my boots
in a bucket of pig, and the words steamed the
breath from the blacksmith?

Gravel in my lungs, and the stumbling under this flail,
my side like a sack of wheat, the knife felt awkward in my
fingers. Shoot me, mother.

From the book Robinson Crusoe's Bank Holiday Monday

We crawled forward and came upon a Cornishman. He was ripped from his shoulder to his waist by shrapnel.
As we got to him, he said, ĎShoot meí. He was beyond
all human aid, and before I could draw a revolver he was
dead. The last word he uttered was Ďmotherí, and that
has run through my brain for 84 years. I canít forget it.
I think itís the most sacred word in the English language.
- Harry Patch, at the age of 102, 2001