High Wire Act. National Poetry Writing Month Day 11.

Looking back along Crib Goch ridge towards Snowdon.
Looking back along Crib Goch ridge towards Snowdon.

The high wire act, we’ve all been there at some point in time. Making a leap of faith, stepping beyond our normal boundaries to do or say something. That first step is always a doozer, but to keep going when the line is swaying and the cable is showing the strain. What a way to live a life.

High Wire Act.

Arms out, feet close, line stable.
A step out above the real space
where the sound of the water
mingles with the spray
to throw even the most
disciplined of high wire walkers
into a resonating wobble.

It’s too late now, cameras click,
videos are being streamed
and will she, won’t she, is the only
thing that makes any difference now.
Each word is a wire in the cable,
tightening, unravelling with a sound
like a violin being murdered.

You’ll make it across, this time.
But the trauma of the crossing.
The terrible moments paused
at the crux of the wire waiting
to feel the gravity of the moment
take you deep into the river,
that stays with you every time.


Go on, tell me something, you know you want to.

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