It wasn't physical pain,
but the pain of betrayal:
'Father, the wings aren't real!'
Wax doesn't bleed,
though it scalds
like tears of grief
on its course to the sea -
particles of thin gold leaf
flecking the evening waves.
But the wings...
'They seemed, in their urgency,
extensions of me,
transforming life
from the fettered dark of the cave
to a boundless brilliance,
an arc of light...'
They were contrived, a masterpiece
vulnerable to time and fire -
a father's dream for his son,
the meaning misinterpreted,
gone awry. The craftsman hadn't
reckoned on the dream gone wrong,
the omnipotent sun,
his headstrong child, deaf
to the warning voice, drunk
with delight and pride,
pierced by immortal arrows
in his downward flight.
1989
Ikaros falling
© Copyright: Jena Woodhouse, 2007
Свидетельство о публикации №107120601019
Свидетельство о публикации №107120601019
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