Poem for Sunday: A Deluge of Elvers

An elver is a young eel
(image source: motherjones.com)

Standing to attention,                                                            

Tall and straight                                                                                

They wait -                                                                                         

Towering high -

Wellingtons -                                                                                     

By a big wide door,                                                                              

Racy-red                                                                                              

And expectant

Then

Small legs

And tiny feet,

Hot with excitement,

Wriggle and push

Down.

Move around,

Settle,

Step out,

And we’re off.

We’re out

Out on the road

In an old Morris Minor,

Sweeping down to the sea.

And we’re there.

.

Out into the salty air.

Clouds playing hide and seek,

Wind whipping the hair

Of a small girl in round-rimmed glasses,

Mouth breathing‘ohhhhh’

As we go

Down to the water’s edge.

Stop.

Look.

Soak up

the sea’s treasures.

A deluge of elvers

Dashing …

Gliding and sliding

Glistening and writhing

In their millions.

A rhapsody of movement.

A magical melody …

Squelchy!

Elastic!

Springy!

Ecstatic!

Bold, cold

Jewels of jet

She won’t forget.

‘Can we take one home Daddy?’

‘No!’

‘Ohhhhh!’

And the day passes

And melts away quicker than

Ice-cream.

Home time.

One last look in the stream ..

Still

Pushing and jostling,

Squeezing and teasing,

Nibbling and nudging,

The jewels of jet

She can’t forget

Are there.

Then,

Small legs and tiny feet

Tug and heave -

Leave

The tall, racy-red wellingtons –

Out they come

And stand

On the sand.

Expectant.

Naked and cold.

Then

Small hands

Plunge and scoop …

Squirming fistfuls of fish

Filling the boots.

Up to their necks

Up to the top

Elvers slip and slop.

One boot full

Carried with care

to the car.

Two boots full

Carried with care

to the car.

Elvers slip and slap.

Then

Heading for home.

The jewels of jet

Are softly wet.

And crammed inside

For the homeward ride…

… Up to the wellingtons’ top

Safe …

Til                    we stop

And                 we tip

And                 they flip

Out

In their millions.

Spilling            over

Streaming       down

The slippery sides of

The racy-red boots.

Into

The boot

Of the car

Drying!

Desperate!

Dying!

In their millions.

Home.

Red cheeks drain

And

Tears spill over …

But their wet saltiness

Cannot revive the soft, black genocide

Or wash away

The pain

And the shame

Of a hard lesson learned

That day.

                                      Gillian Meadows