My uncle
sits cross-legged

the shiny sickle
of the scythe

held in
his hands

as if he had pulled down a moon
wrestled it to the ground

tamed it.

He looks like a friendly
Death

having a tea break.

Nothing dies in these seconds.

The world holds its breath.

The scythe winces
with light

so sharp it can cut thought.

It cuts through
what I am

thinking now.

The whetstone sings
to the curve of the metal.

It cuts through Time
sharper sharper each time.

My mind bleeds.

It cuts through each successive second
so that each second is separate

from the rest.

The song the whetstone
sings to the scythe
scares me.

My Uncle
takes a horsehair

from Dolly’s tail so
softly she thinks it’s still there.

The scythe eagerly
divides it into two.

Dolly whinnies
nuzzles him affectionately.

He runs his thumb
along the blade.

Blood sings
in the open air.

He sucks it.

“Perfect! ”

He smiles.

“Perfect! ”


The world catches its breath.

Dónall Dempsey

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/song-of-the-scythe-for-lyn/