Tonight's Poet Corner: Sonnet Solstice #143
The Trickster Crows
by Belinda Roddie
The trickster crows - his last, long, ling'ring cry
of victory before he drops stone dead
among the roses. The garden is dry
from lack of rain. The petals are too red.
I take his hat from his cold head and pull
it across my brow, the brim tight, sticky
from the June heat. I've been given a role
to act, and a small stage to set my feet
upon. I know the stories - I've observed
my master work, defying truths, the art
of deception, confusion, brightly curved
against his elbow, wits close to his heart.
I quietly stand by his corpse today -
what is the game that I am meant to play?
by Belinda Roddie
The trickster crows - his last, long, ling'ring cry
of victory before he drops stone dead
among the roses. The garden is dry
from lack of rain. The petals are too red.
I take his hat from his cold head and pull
it across my brow, the brim tight, sticky
from the June heat. I've been given a role
to act, and a small stage to set my feet
upon. I know the stories - I've observed
my master work, defying truths, the art
of deception, confusion, brightly curved
against his elbow, wits close to his heart.
I quietly stand by his corpse today -
what is the game that I am meant to play?
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