Saturday, 2 November 2013

Hands As Diving Rods

The wooden boy’s eyes discovered tears
when the tiny ballerina in the jewellery box –
dancing before a mirror in lopsided circles -
resisted his advances.

Pain seeped out – oozed in ovoids...
sticky resin slowly slid
down grained cheeks.

His wooden legs rubbed together, 
calf to shin - a cricket crying out
in a lonely summer’s field.

The wooden boy asked his aging father
might there be a sister
to share his difference with.

The hands held up before his face
were old, tired, like tiny trees close to the fall,
suffered little hand quakes.

"Creation lasts only so long," his father 
answered,"before the baton 
must be passed on for the next to make
of it what they will."

Tears continued their fall
as his legs wore patches
in his trousers.

Through summer evenings
the boy tried to uncover the art
of dowsing a child from a chosen log.

Puddled, curled, shaves
of wood
moved out from his feet
and spread across the room -
testament to continued failure.

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