Buried Duck
It was Seamus to put me up to it.
He was like that, always egging me on,
slipping out of it when we were found out.
It took two of us to corner the bird,
hold the head, steady the pumping feet,
ducks have stronger necks than five year olds expect.
We had the quiet for it,
mother gone to town.
If we were quick, we could bury it.
There was sand in the shed, wet sand
against the wall, a dark corner,
a resting place for feathers.
Seamus dug the hole, scooped back a grave
with bony fingers.
He was a doctor even then.
Our duck might have been going back to nest
as we piled sand, heavier and heavier.
We were both in it.
He was the one who covered the head, pushed the neck under.
Honest, he was the last one to see the wild eye disappear
under the weight of our mound.
He was the last one to touch the duck alive.
I saw the buried bird lose its head,
piled deadening sand on top.
I wanted to make sure…
never thought she’d miss her duck,
there were other things to do.
But Seamus had to let it out, had to be found out, had to point the finger,
young innocent, led astray.
He loved being the baby.
When mother shoved her arm into the grave, she wasn’t long there,
her elbow never got wet.
She pulled her duck out,
alive.
From Bath to Cork with baby Grace 