Very Bad Archive
A Perfectly Good Crisis Wasted
Victoria Woodbine
He tripped over a formicary
(Not the one
Over which your mind tripped
In Edward Abbey’s first
paragraph)
And tumbled in, his skin
Becoming part of the lichen,
Lichen became skin;
Carried unwitting, unwilling
Formicants along,
On the way down.
Falls end, one way
Or another. Grit sufficed,
To stand and feel
Cold rock, weed
slime, glass shards,
Metal blades, and blackness
Which caught up his cries
For help as an outfielder
Shags flies, and made
Use of them as more
formicaries.
That he had been,
In fact, pushed to trip
And fall little mattered
Now. Little matters
Now, sunsets, sunrises,
Solstice after solstice,
Still he gropes, though long
Since Clan Myrmex sang
Their exoskeletal way
Out. (Was it ‘Auld
Lang Syne?’)
Victoria Woodbine has published since joining on 30/11/99. Read more of Victoria's terrible poetry at the anthology. Here are three of Victoria's latest works: