Gig
Gig. It's a word she uses all the time. She goes to lots and tells me about them After class. Gig. I like its sound, the way It begins and ends hidden in the back Of the throat. She's not my best pupil. Her work Is full of inappropriate words, And I like to see proper usage. `Roget's, Fowler's the OED. Buy them', I say To all my sixth-formers. I've gained respect Amongst my colleagues as a man who knows His definitions. Once, she asked if I'd go To a gig. 'It's at the soccer ground,' she said.
I would have loved to have gone. But she's young. What would people think of me? While gardening I heard them playing. Songs and pop groups I didn't know. A small aircraft flew over, Filming it. Now there's a sound that's familiar, One of the first I remember. I was eight, It was wartime. We were on a field trip. Our teacher's voice was drowned. A hit Messerschmitt!
We were hurried away. I hid, had to see.
Slowly, the wreckage's propeller still turned. The engine chugged. No, that's not right. The sound Came from deep inside it. More of a gig, gig, gig.
Steven Blyth
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