Skinny river beckons,
breathing an echo of days when these feet
measured the thin edge a an instant before the leap,
when the landing deftly skipped the breach,
in the days when danger was a game
unfettered by sticks and stones of age,
and gunshot death was fun to feign;
tumbling play that entertained
till hunger called away.
whispers skittering memories,
whisking up a risible sniff of magic, as if
a giggling wish will lift me, and carry me back
to the beginning that knew no measure
of length or breadth; that imagined
For an instant
I am loath to leave this empty crypt,
feeling a momentary need to stand sentry,
lest I miss my dusty trinkets,
my piddling, middling strides,
my thin wisp of pride.
if I go, the sky
will again be mine
and I will recognise my hands.
Adult battles of fact and habit
will be banished to the monochromatic land
I shall be Ilya, the handsome Man From UNCLE,
my brothers; spies from THRUSH.
My gun will eradicate evil until
it’s time to switch sides and be a baddie.
Naturally, Ilya will shoot me; the Right Side always wins.
Hamming it like a weak comedienne, I’ll expire in traditional style
with agonised grunts, thrashes and sighs,
finally rolling with a splash
into the shallow river
When dinner arrives,
I will obediently dine,
forever a child.
Written for Word of the Day Challenge: Loath
This is what Bruce has to say about the river…
©Jane Paterson Basil