ANNA CROWE (Plymouth, 1945)
PUNK WITH DULCIMER
He stood at the end of the carriage.
A black-clad giant, fearsome
in fringed and studded leather, ginger mohican.
Then sat down in the seat beside me.
Soon—Plants are amazing, so they are!
The voice, rich Ulster. He looks up from his book,
eyes shining under the tawny crown.
—If it weren’t for plants,
if it weren’t for vascular bundles,
we’d not be walking upright.
He speaks in a creaking of leather,
a sound like branches in a pine-wood,
rubbing. And a multitude of studs,
from his ears to his bare, braceleted arms
and eloquent knuckle-dustered mittens,
sparkle and gleam like rain on thistles.