A Medusa's calling…
As its translucent body rings-out
Under an unheard, jet propulsion…
Question; does it cast shadows?
Does its prey know of an answer?
To this rhythmic, Medusa's calling…
It's a death squad of little stings?
Why is it they, avoid shadows.
Contracting in the suns arrows…
Why does a bell without a gong.
Cause such alarm just wearing,
A sarong, swimming, vertically,
Diligently, towards the rising sun…
Why do they disguise themselves?
As a millpond ripple is it in order
That we shall ignore their riddle?
And, think them an innocent suspect.
Mark Heathcote's Other Poems
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