The Bow Maker
Quickened senses
catch the smell
and sticky bleed
of bark
stripped
from a branch,
the cane
fire blackened
to a spring
of polished rod
then bent
into a bow,
the taut string
twanged
to feel
its stored strength
pulled back
to fling an arrow
high
and tipped
with lust
for a bird,
warm with blood
to spill
but with wings
wary of boys
and too quick.
Copyright © Paul Willason | Year Posted 2022
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