Icarus, on a Wednesday Morning in Fife
He falls,
Leaving all grace behind,
An unkindly reminder of time,
Whooshing past his lugs,
Auld hands reach out to grasp,
Catching nothing but thin air.
He falls,
With all the panache of a sack of spuds,
A dad-shaped hole in the garage roof,
Another do, for to the to-do-list, to do,
The noise has woken the dog,
It still needs walking.
He falls,
He doesn’t fly,
My childhood Superman,
More Clark Kent than Kal-El these days,
Who knew his kryptonite was asbestos?
Everyone it seems, but him.
He falls,
But not for long,
The end is surely nigh,
Shame no one told the chip pan,
Minding its own business down below,
No chips for tea tonight.
He’s fallen,
Yes, he’s down,
But it’s no big deal, no fuss,
No need to call an ambulance, doctor or nurse,
Just a minute or two to walk it off,
Maybe a wee plaster for his pride.
He fell,
Deaf ears to all the warnings,
Slowing down doesn’t lift him up,
Icarus, on a Wednesday morning in Fife,
The sun taunts through the punctured garage roof,
As always, just out his reach.
About the Creator
Gavin J Innes
Scottish Writer Living in that London.
I pen plays, poems, prose and alliterations.
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