Song Of The Scythe (For Lyn) Poem by Dónall Dempsey
Song Of The Scythe (For Lyn)
My uncle
sits cross-legged
the shiny sickle
of the scythe
held in
his hands
as if he had pulled down a moon
wrestled it to the ground
tamed it.
He looks like a friendly
Death
having a tea break.
Nothing dies in these seconds.
The world holds its breath.
The scythe winces
with light
so sharp it can cut thought.
It cuts through
what I am
thinking now.
The whetstone sings
to the curve of the metal.
It cuts through Time
sharper sharper each time.
My mind bleeds.
It cuts through each successive second
so that each second is separate
from the rest.
The song the whetstone
sings to the scythe
scares me.
My Uncle
takes a horsehair
from Dolly’s tail so
softly she thinks it’s still there.
The scythe eagerly
divides it into two.
Dolly whinnies
nuzzles him affectionately.
He runs his thumb
along the blade.
Blood sings
in the open air.
He sucks it.
“Perfect! ”
He smiles.
“Perfect! ”
The world catches its breath.
I feel as if I have just walked into a Van Gogh Painting, The Potato Eaters, or some such rural print. This is a wonderful image painting from first word to last. Thank you, my Ever So Dear Friend...LYN
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4/29/2024 6:40:17 AM # 1.0.0.1119
Wow...wonderful story and storytelling! So sharp it can cut thought. Great line and a good description of what you do here. That scythe and that uncle have now made a third appeareance...when you settle on something you really circle it and keep writing it until you get it just right. I think this is just...so right! love and envy Dee Dee4