He had toiled all year,
His calloused hands skimming over
Gentle curves that weren’t mine,
Fabricating the wings
That he said would make him a god,
Would make him fly.

He collected feathers (I sneezed!), and
Joined them together
With practised ease.
He filled my kitchen with
Snippets of thread and
The honeyed smell of molten beeswax.

When at last his work was done, he
Fixed his wings and
Found himself
Buoyed upwards, suspended
On the beaten air.
Take care…take care,

I called
From the safety of the pier,
Not too high, nor too low.
Then rising on charcoal wings,
He lifted himself
From the deck.

The astonished crowd whooped in delight
As he swooped and dived
Like a cormorant,
Over the winning line.
The worthy victor
Must surely be a god.

A god? laughed the sun,
Raising his golden head.
A god be damned!
And he tempted him closer,
Softening and melting
The wax which fixed those feathery wings,

Til nothing remained
But a stone -
Dropping
With a splash
Into the cold, clear waters
Below.

By Valerie Evans