Satura Prize 2013

Afternoon Story

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,