(Image by
Mordecaidesign)
He wears a tall hat,
white gloves wield
a black wand.
He wears a cape,
satin lined red.
The kohl round his eyes
swirls and time stands still.
He pulls all the wondrous
usuals – white bird from
his hat, neverending scarves,
quarters from ears, box sawed in
half, … flowers, and all that …
But
what is the
magician like
when all the
tricks go dark?
When no flick’ring
shadows cast eyes afar?
When hat comes off,
and doves drop dead inside,
and scarves get runny snags,
and saws swivel too far to the right?
Without the cape and
snowy gloves, what
part of him is left?
He is no Merlin,
his illusions no magic,
he weaves shadows through
light. He is as tired
as my bones
and he craves
wonder, too.
