Fool

See the slender Fool on a high hill top,
how the wind lifts his hair; 
hear his dog bark as the ground yawns 
a step too wide, too far.

See how he shines in his red and gold;
hear the lilt and tinkle of bells.
His upturned face is blushed by dawn
and his cap sits aslant the stars.

See the Fool with his clubs and balls,
how they tumble around his ears.
Hear in their clatter the crack of dark
and mark his wide-eyed stare.

Always he follows where his finger 
points and where the motley burns.
Soon he will caper in his bare, hot bones
through the canyons of the long-loved dead.

by Abigail Wyatt

Email: abiwyatt@yahoo.co.uk