[ butcher ]
The Monbulk butcher delivered
on Tuesdays & Friday afternoons and often
we panted after the mile up from school just to be there
for him coming to the door with his 'Ooroo Ooh' and in
to the counter of the kitchen mealtable
where tradesmen were received as us.
There then, we warmed to the jovial blood-soak
on the white butchers paper which doubled weekly
to wrap his parcel like a simple gift, -same as the palaver
he went on with, saying how big, how substantial,
amply tousling infant brother Russell's top
curls like the furred hide on a Hereford bull calf
The butcher was the happiest of comers.
There must be something about the red meat
that made for a little air of celebration
as if our every mutton and two-tooth
was a victory, and quite some catch.
Usual fare was forequarter chops, mince steak,
silverside, sausage mince each fortnight Sunday
ox tail, a leg of mutton for Saturday dinner
sausages, soup bones in winter and dog cake.
Butcher came like a planet in orbit; we were
delivered, a delivery which we set occasions upon,
for our days dragged out, rooted, but routineless
except for the shepherd-like visits of the butcher
who revealed another world through meat
which no knife did in vegetable or plant
HortiCulture can make you squeamish!
Like Cain, was that why he regretted Abel?
When I was about seven the butcher came
to the fridgeless shed instead of to the house;
to secret doings with a paddock beast in the yard
but my brother Melvyn knew:
'He's killing the bull calf!'
He and I hung about as close as we could get
but we were not allowed to watch the slaughter
as if that happiness the butcher delivered
was a thing only adults could see in the flesh.
11 December 1996-March 1997 © Wayne David Knoll
No comments:
Post a Comment