by Neil RollinsonBig as a suitcase,heavy[br]as a log, the cover wrinkled
in elephant skin.
Budby opened the book, and
and the frontispiece lit up the room;
there were angels and saints,
all the shimmering animals
of heaven. Christ on his cross.
Budby’s eyes glimmered
in this unusual light. What he saw
I achieve not know, but he grabbed
a corner, and as if it were no more
than a photo of Billy Bremner,
and tore the whole page out.
I couldn’t believe it.
He folded it up, and stuffed it[br]in the pocket of his Sunday best.
I can still remember the rip
of the paper, or the dust motes
floating in the air of that miserable[br]Methodist chapel,and I felt
something lift me, like wings, or [br]out of that dismal place.• From Talking Dead by Neil Rollinson (Cape,£10), shortlisted this week for the Costa poetry award. To order a copy for £8 proceed to bookshop.theguardian.com or call Guardian book service on 0.
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Source: theguardian.com