NAIL VARNISH

The day my mum returned from Kenya
we walked to Codford station, a whole crowd of us -
before diesels and before Beeching. I think it was midday.
The train was pulling in as we crossed the line,
let out a breath of steam. Fourteen years old,
I hadn't seen the woman for months and didn't run
to meet her, held back to let the others welcome her,
breathed in the sooty cloud. And there she was.


Her claws were red. She must have torn
the gullets of springbok and kudu. Now
she advanced, put her soft flesh round me
in a hug. Doors banged. Steam hissed.
The train departed, and we walked back home to lunch.
My assegai beside me on the floor, I scratched
thin sheets of beef with surreptitious glances
at those blood-red nails.