Friday 22 November 2013

#55 - Killing Me Softly With His Gong

The sound wafts through delicate guts, upsetting stomachs.
When he plays, the butter refuses to come in the churn;
cows defecate, visibly distressed.

You have rarely seen such orbits as are made
by his gentle grey pom-pom before it meets
the dimpled bronze. He laughs at our skittishness:

it only goads him to delay the stroke for longer,
then - when it lands - to bring the stick down
harder, stronger.

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