Title: Sport 37

Publication details: Fergus Barrowman, 2009, Wellington

Part of: Sport

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Sport 37: Winter 2009

Lynn Davidson

page 61

Lynn Davidson

Pear tree, apple tree, green glass tree

It is mid afternoon and we haven't gone far.
Ahead of me his hand
pulls back the pear tree branch.
I duck under and, briefly, a golden pear lies
against my hair, heavy as a chant
in a foreign language. I turn

as though in church again, as though I turned
towards a far
light, a nonsensical chant,
tremendous, opaque, cupping hands.
As though I could lie
along the length of this green branch—

faith. But in that branching
maze I have stumbled every turn.
So I follow the land's lay
and go too far
for green glass trees and mighty hands
and all those enchantments.

The children start up a plaintive, nursery chanting
recalling their own hallway like a branch
from which their bedrooms blossom every night. I take their hands
and both heads turn
towards me but their eyes are far
away back home in their bedrooms where they lie

each night—lie
like little dashes in the long, spell-binding chant
page 62 of night. 'How far!'
they yell. Their arms stiffen like branches
and their hands turn
angrily inside my hands.

He slips free of me and his white hand
darkens a nest where three eggs lie.
They want to wait for the bird's return.
She starts a sing-song chant.
A bird bobs along a branch.
Too far, it sings back. Too far, too far.

It's night time and we have gone too far to return.
The lay of broken branches makes a scratchy chant.
The children flush out birds with their quick hands.

page 63

They do not want to fight and kill

The little ones are heathens—
see the dirt on their faces.
They do not want to go in the wicker boat
lined with animal skin
and row backwards into battle.

Why does he even bother
with these reluctant ones
with their leathery knees and elbows
and their crouching
and their milk teeth?

Once more he calls on them,
pours wine, offers his suffering eyes,
but they will not go to that fragile vessel
moored on the shore—
even when the sea is golden.

They are touched, though,
by the wickerwork boat,
its damp and pungent animal skins.

Father is a patient man. Adjusts his collar. Comes back day after day to preach to the little ones who scatter before night settles.

I am a stranger in a strange land,
he calls, and still you won't come with me.
The little ones are quiet in their trees and ferns and clayey caves.
When he goes, they call to each other through the dark—
the call and reply of doves.

page 64

What I said at the hearing

I was born the year
Billie Holiday died
I was born the year

I was born

I had these children
and lost my wits—
I meant to keep

breathing

that thump like sails turning
is fear

there are so many ways to listen
and so many ways to speak—

how do I know what you asked me?
how do I know what I said?

I learned from Billie
a tip to ease the suffering—

once I finish walking over rocks
I can sit on my coat
and dangle my feet in the water