By night he walked so close to the edge
That the sparks flew up beneath his feet
And the iron hand of motherhood
Reached out to draw him safe and still.
So the edge crept closer, and the sparks
Became a network of weaving shadows, inviting the slip,
And the mother’s hand became
A wail of grief, as hard and sharp as a knife.
The footsteps paused. The edge resolved
Into an echo-chamber, a speaking cube,
A steel box where voices pressed his eyes.
The hand withdrew, and tears appeared,
Decorating each fingertip with dew.
The wailing faded to a clenched silence.
Edward is a lecturer and writer, mostly on business and politics. He often posts twittaku (double haiku in 140 characters) on Twitter, plus the occasional political limerick.