A Concrete Pond

A concrete pond.

A concrete city.

Harsh and pitiless

drowning in rage,

its skirling sirens

skewering minds.

The foetid water’s

spurned by mallards –

no kids dib their nets

through jagged flotsam.

Kate squeezed my hand

in consolation. 

I squeezed hers. ‘Once

this was a lake. There

used to be willows.’               

‘Did you fish here?’

‘Yeah, I caught minnows

or sailed a yacht

that dad made for me –

two big kids pinched it.

My dad went mad,

he called me ‘yellow.’

Getting it back,

cost me two black eyes –

then dad smashed the boat.’

‘That sounds unfair.’

‘Life’s never been fair.’

‘So, what’s the point?’

I watched a lotus

breaching the surface,

its fronds uncurled

covering the pond.

I stepped aboard.

‘Magic is the point –

you coming or not?’