A Mistake Is NotFrances LevistonI found it one evening railed up on the kerb-- a Ford Cortina on a quiet road by the tarn they drained last year. Somebody's baby (furry dice, nodding dog), now empty. Maybe a salesman pissing in the woods?, a skater down the bank with his girl, making love in the minnow glitters. It was a jolt, a crash in itself, to see, cycling closer, the damage: the weak-spot, the headlamp entirely blown out, glass trembling on the folded bonnet, socket pummelled into itself, panels warping off. This is the route of the April hunt, where horses, champions, snapped their slender ankles on rocks in the water, were blinded by the low-hanging hazels and left behind, shot with the foxes, no tails to speak of. They drained the hazard. Yes, they did. Someone must have spoken his mind, the immortal words Mate--she's a write-off and given a ride to the nearest phone. New eyes aren't cheap. So I would've led it home, my love, into our city, with this piece of string, behind my rusty bike, if you'll believe it-- how could I want to care for a thing if I didn't know it was broken? Frances Leviston |