The weeping red-brick of a November morning,
jumbled twist of schoolboys queuing outside
for swimming lessons, our hanger-like frames
still growing into winter coats, legs dimpled
with the cold. Nylon togs and frayed towels
tucked, like lunch boxes under our arms,
each of us clutching the harp and hare
of a thrupenny bit, warm in our palms.
Did they all feel as nervous as me, dropped off
by an encouraging father who exhorted me
to enjoy myself, not realising it was a world
I was still unfamiliar with – the geometry
of boyish banter, the innocence of exposed flesh
and the fear of jumping in at the deep end?
Maurice Devitt has published two collections, Growing Up in Colour and Some of These Stories are True (both Doire Press). He is the chairperson of The Hibernian Writers’ Group.
jumbled twist of schoolboys queuing outside
for swimming lessons, our hanger-like frames
still growing into winter coats, legs dimpled
with the cold. Nylon togs and frayed towels
tucked, like lunch boxes under our arms,
each of us clutching the harp and hare
of a thrupenny bit, warm in our palms.
Did they all feel as nervous as me, dropped off
by an encouraging father who exhorted me
to enjoy myself, not realising it was a world
I was still unfamiliar with – the geometry
of boyish banter, the innocence of exposed flesh
and the fear of jumping in at the deep end?
Maurice Devitt has published two collections, Growing Up in Colour and Some of These Stories are True (both Doire Press). He is the chairperson of The Hibernian Writers’ Group.
