Saturday, 6 March 2021

One Poem by David Callin


That sudden stoop, the knowing
or quite innocent display,
beneath a smock-like blouse, of

your pale torso, its slender
springiness, its moving parts,
from neck to midriff: was it

quite necessary? It was
an aggravated curtsey,
at the least, and that white flash -

a fish breaking the surface
of a quiet upland tarn -
has not faded. Its bright ghost

retains its vivid outline -
foreshortened, and finishing
in a finely flourished tail.



David Callin was born in the Isle of Man and, apart from a brief seven year sojourn elsewhere, has lived there all his life – latterly, since the children left home, with his wife and a gardening to-do list.

His poems have been published widely, on-line and off, but he is most often to be found in Snakeskin, The Journal, Prole, Acumen and Southlight.

His first collection of poetry, Always, has just been published by the excellent Dreich, and is available here -

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