Thursday, 5 November 2015

The Wiredancer



On the evening of the second day, a moon appeared and somewhere far away, a piper played a lament which carried on the wind.

To the right of me, over the bomb-blasted edge, the boy who had been crying for his mother, spoke no more. And yet I missed the sound of another soul, even one tormented.

On the highest ridge, silhouetted by the light of sky and war, I watched you dance. Your frozen scream caught in time and your broken body trapped upon the barbed-wire.

Each gust of wind made you jig and dance, as if for the pleasure of some unseen eyes.

In the morning, I promised I would cut you down and let you rest; your dancing days are gone.
Sleep well.
 
bobby stevenson 2015

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