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William Rush
Into Mist
After all, this is how we live, putting one
foot after another, trying to avoid disaster.
In 1859, Blondin the great funambulist,
with his manager on his back, crossed
Niagara on a rope, the crowd far below
on the shore scarcely breathing as he
paused half-way over the roaring water.
My grandmother, also sure-footed, kept
her formidable balance until the day she
found grandpa dead on the verandah.
Without a cry she fell, slow motion, into
mist, the helpless watchers blurring more
each year, her croquet mallet under her
bed for protection, and later on, an axe.
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William Rush
lives in Melbourne, Victoria. He is a retired pharmacist whose poems
have been published in Australian magazines and overseas. He enjoys
tennis, looking at clouds, andwriting poems that are concise and
accessible. email: W.Rush
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