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Medusa
The Medusa
I painted a picture of a tranquil bay, a red boathouse
rowing boat, golden pebbles in shallow water
naturally, the sky was blue, the mountain afar hazy.
A noise upstairs, the woman rearranging furniture
doesn’t go out and gets bored, breaking the dream.
When she was done, I looked at the painting again
it had changed; the boathouse had holes in the roof
the mountain was too close, gloomy and snowy
In the sea, a medusa, with tentacles reaching
70 years back in time when the aside was spoken
lasted into the future.
The sting of the medusa had a woman’s face, stung.
When the aim of the bite had gone, the hurt had not
putrid through the ages, a wound that does not heal.
The upset said: “we can no longer tolerate this slight
against us.” We are a proud nation.”
No one knew what the remark was about, it had been
vindictive, and a demand for a historic apology was issued.
Sabre rattling, ambassadors left armies at borders
war broke out.
Copyright ©
Jan Hansen
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