Darts

Darts, like sails aswim in the saline
flow of soft sky's amniotic embrace.
He is there, in one machine,
trebuchéd by a goddess' grace.

Distant shards of my soul sing;
gyre like wind-chimes, their church-glass
an iron roar of engine's burning,
of billion-dollar-power smash.

His city horizon melts into a line of sea.
With a trumpet's roar he explodes
to ashed atoms, wings a child-hand
heavenwards.

A

Sun
day
ray
for
my
daffodil.

An echo of the games he ran,
arms like a windmill,
grinding his playtime bones
into a dead man.

© Mark Sheeky. Permission is required for reproduction.