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.
