Featured Poet, Amy Barry

78

Willie Ryan
Inspired by The Waking of Willie Ryan, by John Broderick

He hears the manic laughter

of a fly,

sits up among thistles,

remembering 

a concussed journey.

The eyes of a red fox latch on his

but he takes no notice,

repeatedly clenches,

unclenches

his nerve-riddled fists.

A gunshot echoes,

deafens the silent field. 

Birds scatter as fox blood glistens,

red fur giving itself to the dirt.

Bluish pupils dilate to bursting,

tears of pain drip rapidly as if 

his world has just ended —

A black fog drapes.

He hears the manic laughter

of a fly.

Writer I once knew

Grousing under his breath

beneath burnt sienna leaves,

an intimate battle,

a day searching

for sunlight 

through burgeoning clouds.

The muse

is present,

with flawless skin, perfumed,

bending

lacy-skirted before his hand,

which offers seeds to eager birds,

while his foot shoos rabbits away.

He raises the brim of his fedora,

runs his hands through his silvery beard. 

The soil-brown tips of his finger 

will shift about the shaft of a pen, 

nimble as a spider 

wrapping its prey.

When the sun strays

through the gap of haughty conifers,

it drags with it 

a pair of lines,

that reek of a scent 

he’s worn before,

a brand of perfection,

moulded in a moment.

LEAVE A REPLY

Please enter your comment!
Please enter your name here