March


He stood against the light, stands in bright white,
He draws the blade and parries prie,
forte, foil and foible all point at me.
I crouch at the stern mask, I know it better than his face,
But I can tell him by his gait, light on the feet and fast with the wrist,
Parry riposte parry riposte, stance.
emotion.  This isn’t his weapon, he moves with his predators grace but holds it just wrong,
I calculate my move and take it as I try to take him. He moves fast and I’m impaled,
Caught on him, fixated long after he’s gone.
Writhing where he hit me.   The beepers go off with the thrashing of the fleche,
He moves back towards the light,
now all these blunt swords seem so pointless.

So what am I meant to do?
I try to move with a predators grace,
Light on the feet and quick with the wrist,
But this isn’t my weapon it’s his, and I hold it just wrong,
the mantles too big for anyone, so I want it.
As he can’t be him now they’ve changed his hair, I want to be him for good.
I see him now as she last saw him, all laid out and bathed in purple.

Chris Bearman, 14th March 2008