Unpardoned Options

[Arnfinn]

Unpardoned

He sways beside me, tattered brown fingers clawing, slapping and shaking—
a cruciform figure in dark shadows.
He stops… sighs… then turns— hooked thorns suckle strained sinews.
‘ Here accept the sword of absit omen, you must venture on—
go slay your demons.’

A standstill.
Tall gray torsos, stout roots underneath.
Old growth, defused light, black nefarious impediments.
The girth of lost days.
Each sword stoke— a hollow ring…no echo…no echoes.
Enough—we must return to the sunlight.





John Macleod copyright Ó 18th March 2006

[Psyche]

Hi John !

Having trouble with yer conscience, HAHA.. sorry 'bout that. Course, I didn't understand a thing till I read your explanation to Nina. I have an excuse, tho', it's that I'm under the influence of....NO, NOT WHAT YOU THINK, i've got the damn 'flu, that's the excuse for my un-brightness today....

The girth of lost days.

I really like this bit, not sure why, but it's a superb way of expressing the lifeline of your poem. Extremely original, John, wish I'd said that !

I haven't read everybody's comments coz of my brain fog today. I just like the way you've dealt with that horrid bogey-man inside all of us. Nay, I correct that, there seem to be plenty of people around with no conscience at all. Glad u have one, Arnie !!
But don't let it keep you awake. One hasn't lived if one hasn't erred, I think somebody said, or did I just come up with this bit of wisdom?

Thanks for a good poem, as usual,
Cheers, Sylvia