Ekphrastic response to the Peter Breughel painting of Landscape With the Fall of Icarus.
an
insignificant splash 
after such grandeur. Flying high in the sky next to the
sun only to fall down in grace, fall down down slowly at first, tediously
tedious when air currents waft his frail body back up up towards the sun only
to surrender him down down to fall again, down towards earth in a tilting
tumbling somersault that at another time might have felt like such fun but only
if he could stay just in that moment and enjoy the ride up and down, but a crow
laughs at his fall and Icarus wakes to the screeching in-between of sky and
water and looks down (he should never have looked down) to see his face stare
back from the water, mouth wide open in a silent scream soaring from the depths
of his gaping throat, blue eyes staring, lengthy blonde curls floating around
his head like a parachute, but not a parachute, a liability when water wets
hair heavy weighing it down as he falls into his reflection, titillating upon
the water, hearing the first drop, the second drop of the first splash, now
hearing his voice high, tight calling for help, but the ploughman, the
picnicker, the little child with a kite, turn to see the stupid disturbance
from a stupid boy who really believed, really believed he would never die, that
escape from a labyrinth meant wax wings waxing solid forever, that escape from
prison meant playtime with sunbeams, not sliding down sunbeams, and the people
look away look away from the red- faced god falling into human condition, the
wide-eyed culprit who hits watery concrete, regal wings just behind his white
legs, until his calls for help gurgle gurgle gurgle
and
the world returns to its state of being the world again,
looking
away.
