What happened to Henry Townsend that summer
still turns my stomach. Not long after the war
when barrage balloons had been cut loose
and coal was delivered by horse and cart
lads would chase the wagon up the street
and when the coalie wasn’t looking
grab hold of the tailboard, and legs dangling
hang there for as long as they could.
According to one, Henry, head thrown back
and swinging too close to the edge,
had caught his foot between the spokes
of the rear left wheel. As it turned
his leg snapped in half. I heard the screams
three streets away. Not his, but his mother’s,
who’d been gabbing on the corner.
Air-raid sirens to send us all scurrying.
The driver, ashen-faced beneath the coaldust
held fast the reins to prevent the horse
from moving, but nervous, it bucked
and strained and tried to pull away.
Glad to be of use, two men unbuckled the traces,
freed the horse and laid the shafts gently down.
A kitchen chair was brought out so that
Henry could take the weight off his leg.
Those are the facts and this is the picture:
Late one summer’s afternoon in Seaforth
on a wooden chair on a cobbled street
a ten-year-old sits with his leg in a wheel.
His mother is crying, but not Henry.
He is stock-still. Against her blue pinny
his face has the pale luminescence of an angel.
A neighbour brings him out a drink of water,
cup and saucer, best china. No sign yet
of an ambulance. Not a policeman in sight.
Frantic, my gran arrives to chase me home.
(Compared to his sister, though, Henry got off light.)