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Chris Dodd
I am living in Western Canada, on the Prairies beside the Rockies. The previous three years I spent in Trinidad and before that a decade in Aberdeenshire. Looking back, I think each place and a number of people, have changed me and my writing.
Poems
LONDON ROAD, 28TH NOVEMBER
There are leaf prints —
faint remains on the paving slabs and a musty scent
which becomes softer as the rain begins
with 4 o’clock dusk on a day that is dusk.
We are calm —
waiting in the van
to catch the match report
as rain spatters on the roof
and street lamps spread yellow up the road.
Cars spray by —
each with its own sound
and the third division closes
to nine score draws
and an occluded front tomorrow.
A few doors down,
the windows of an electrical shop
glow red, yellow, purple and green.
Published in Smiths Knoll, Vol. 34.
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THE CAMERA AT COL D’ORNY
I remember placing it on the tarmac
in the chair-lift car park.
That was a hundred kilometres ago.
Brand new, too.
Forty-four and what would Mum and Dad say?
Every shot — the whole trip.
Ken, side on, as he feeds out the rope,
Some arty ones -
Liz looking out across three ranges,
Roy with the flag made by his girlfriend.
Liz says not to worry,
glances at her watch.
I search the pack again.
I know they’re waiting in the bar,
but I don’t want to go.
We walk in and they pause,
until Gary says You may want this.
I touch the metal case,
switch it on
and sunrise floods back across the glacier.
Rucksacks and cagoules that had faded to grey
become blues and yellows.
And the grin returns to Martin
as he hangs from the belay.
Published in Smiths Knoll, Vol. 37.
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