Augustus Young       light verse, poetry and prose
a regular webzine of new and unpublished work

Labyrinth Press. 46 pages. £10.00 / €10.00 / $10.00
ISBN 9871872468822
Order from Labyrinth Press. Cash only. Prices include post and packing. Send to J.R.Parsons, Little Manor Farm, The Street, Topcroft, Bungay NR35 2BL, England.
Memories of childhood and younger days in Ireland. A new version of the much acclaimed limited edition published by Brian Coffey’s Advent Books in 1976. Designed by Sandra Hill of Monkey Press and finely produced on high quality paper. Collectors’ item created by John Parsons.
‘Augustus Young has recreated his early days in a series of close-ups that convey, in dewy-fresh language, the tang and texture of childhood and adolescence.’ Robert Greacen, The Irish Press
We always knew that
he was different.
For instance his hours.
And the way the house
was run around him.
Also before bed
under the Goblin
Tree, he could conjure
bonbons from his sleeve.
And kept out of rows.
We answered to her
with the wooden spoon
for having disturbed
(running up the stairs)
his sleep in the day.
To the dictaphone
his voice droned all night.
Next morning she typed
it out. I was in
long trousers before
I knew she could sing.
Though she seldom played
still her groundstrokes were
surprisingly powerful,
and looping shots scoured
the terra cotta
courts with obstinate
spin and few errors.
While she carried me
it's said Henry
an ambitious cousin
barely out of school
took her to five sets
before she conceded
defeat and drinks
in a sudden death.
Meanwhile what damage
to my early days
was done, nobody
will know. But only
I was at her elbow
she would have won.
Once under the stairs
broke open the Press;
in tissue-paper
found a long black dress.
Who would want to hide 
a gown with such flow:
buttoned up beside
it, a tuxedo.
In green corduroy
jacket, I was the boy
with scratches on his knees,
hair brushed back and creased,
whose Chinese grin was picked
by the press to depict
Local Boy Meets Great Man
(myself and Lord Pakenham).
My father brought me.
Salmon savouries
there were. And famous
people all round us.
However, shame caught up
with me. I got hiccups,
and we had to leave
early. My mother was pleased.
When our kitten had kittens
my mother had to coax me,
‘You're the man, get rid of them
before your sisters get back.’
Five balls of fluff approached me,
like little fingers their legs.
I stuffed them in my school-sack:
recurrent decimals their heads.
On my bike, with wind in shirt,
I freewheeled the downhill run
to the river: a man's work.
She would take me at my word.
And returned my mother's son.
But every window betrayed
a sister mourn the murdered
kittens our kitten had made.