What’s the risk
we take, we
the music makers,
compared to
the dancer’s shifting,
slipping grip;
the penalty taker’s
injudicious shot that
hits the bar;
the climber and
her crew lost
on the implacable
rock for a
final hand hold?
For us maybe
a clinker dropped
across a piece of
pristine harmony
before a crowd
we’re trying
to impress. And
even then
at half time
it’s a shrug
and, “I didn’t
even notice, mate,
and I don’t reckon
they did either”.
Or maybe it’s
stomach cramping
laughter, the three
of us hunched over,
all in tears at
the absurdity:
the sacred
made profane.
Death or glory
under the lights,
the sun, the stars,
we the mutualists,
the diggers and
the levellers
are bound in
a cargo net
of love that fills
the heart and stops
the breath. There’s
a joy you simply
cannot buy
in the moment
pledged towards
the shared self.
Clinker = bum note.
sisyphus 