Death of a Poet

The ramblers reported
pompously
they saw the poet poised
arms outspread as if to fly
into the sun
from the parapet of the bridge
Monday lunchtime.

They often saw him there
thought no more
about it and ate
their sandwiches
at the picnic tables
discussed the blocked
Right of Way
and placed their litter
in the bin provided.
He was mad
simple
you see
everyone knew that.

The oaks were still, leaves
suspended their collective breath
willows quivered in ancient ecstasy
so as not to disrupt the perfect reflection
the completeness of the arches
come full circle.

There was a slap when he threw
himself
into his dream.

Words, letters, paragraphs, stanzas, strophes
splashed scattered droplets and semi colons
onto the sleek
feathers
of startled swans
always on the look-out
for the cross bow bolt
from the bank
never expecting to be disturbed
from above by a belly-flopping poet.

We stumbled on his body
washed up under the footbridge
at Brinksley Lock
he was curled up
foetal
in his naked despair
bits of poem clawed at his skin
ravelled around his ankles
twisted shackles that had
forced him under
dragged him by his hidden currents
denied him breath.

He had vomited images
and boggle- eyed frogs
into the green
singing grass
but his face was calm
as a mirror.


31st December 2007