Flying to fiddlers green.

 

Death pinioned arms,

more bone than skin,

a needle nicks a wasted vein.

He’s swaying

on a slow soft sea,

floating

on warm waves of morphine.

 

 

A ship wreck.

A bleached ruin and scarred ribs,

anchored by

breached and broken bones,

to this dry and sterile sand.

He trips away on vertigo.

 

 

The scent of sea salt,

pitched parquet deck

beneath numb feet.

A gull shines grey

framed by the brilliant blue of sky

and the green of fast running tide.

 

 

She screams loud

her intentions

along her deeply carved domain

kingdom of snow castles and ice flow.

The land of whales and white bears

 

 

Sharp bow

slices the silver surge

into furrows,

painted porcelain pieces,

The song of spuming sail

Answers the wailing northerlies,

 

 

Frost, hoary beards stubble the rails.

Becalmed

off the coast of Greenland,

the acrid stink of volcanic ash

iridescent cod

as big as basking sharks,

 

 

Nose twitches

in snow scented sharpness,

Energy pulses on this meridian,

he floats west of day and east of night,

the aurora shimmers, liquid black

 

 

The total peace

of dark and dank death sleep.

Nerves stir along his gnarled spine,

Eyes open,

a ceiling fan rotates,

 

 

Blades orbit a pre-nova star.

A spider web

swings from a stalactite,

the acrobat on a silver wire.

Eight dangling legs to admire

 

 

Anaesthetised

he flies again

sailing stippled ceilings

to land’s end.

 

-Dave Kavanagh

 

Inspired by the folk-song Fiddlers Green

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