by John Brydon
As a child,
for a special treat,
my father would show us his arm.
A portly, ageing man,
he would start the story
while slowly rolling up his left shirt sleeve
until, on the soft, pink skin
we could see the deep scar
of a human bite.
A wartime street skirmish
with a German soldier
who was in the wrong cellar at the wrong time.
A cornered enemy with no chance,
who fell back on animal instinct
and desperate attack.
Tea time usually brought the story to an end.
Dad would slowly roll down his sleeve,
leaving my final question, as always,