One Poem by Edward Alport

Written in response to this month’s Special Challenge.


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.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.