The boy is six. He watches, in the garden,
how the smaller birds ping down, bounce,
on the twig bits at the end of the branches,
and how the bigger birds land on apples,
bite twice, hack them, let them drop, fly off.
He listens to the bush of bees, the buzzing.
He watches the dog eating, listens to her
snorting in her nose, and then he sees
that bright pink tongue lap round
in circles, wide fat rings, licking for juice.
He goes in, listens to his Dad and Uncle Ed.
His fatherís looking serious. You know me, Ed.
And heís tapping on his chest, punching it
in little jabs. A hundred per cent, Eddie,
a hundred per cent for family, me.
And his tongue too is licking round his lips,
but not in fat round slurps, like the dogís,
but slippery little darts, like a snake.
Trust me with this one, Ed, heís saying.
Your money will be safe with me.
If you have any comments on this poem, Robert Nisbet
would be pleased to hear from you.