ICARUS
Your wings soared
to foolish heights
once only;
the wax slipped away
from an angry sun,
sealing your fate
on the waters below
with your own
mortal stamp.
Few feathers
remained to fall
in your wake;
most, caught by currents
of air, circle the globe
and fall over
our cities even now.
I found one
in my gutter.
COUNTY HALL VISTA
The fountains are silent
the fishermen hunch
in the rain
After lunch, the workers
greet the day again
mayonnaise on their lips
stretching weary limbs
while the aged heron
skims low with
ponderous dignity
across the bay
beak soured in oil.
Senile Pagoda
lonely as the fishermen
who line the wharf
stuffed full with
intentions pending
never ending bureaucratic
mockeries of a system
At lunchtime the
workers feed;
I watch them through the
canteen window.
Rhys Hughes has lived in many countries. He graduated as an engineer but currently works as a tutor of mathematics. Since his first book was published in 1995 he has had fifty other books published and his work has been translated into ten languages.
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