My father's balance

Le mariage des funambules

 

It requires practice

not the falling, but the art of equilibrium.

There he is, sleek as a raven in black tails

the white rim of collar

and cuffs show his preciseness for small details

like the placement

of a foot, the exact centre of mass directly above

the wire, the way

his hands clasp the balance pole. Today a wind -

and because his bride

is a little unsure, the breeze tugging her veil

he's arranged a ladder

to dismount from the rope at either side,

she need

only lower her pole and the riggers will heed.

His ears are tuned

to the calibrations of passing clouds, the wing beat

of doves, but mostly

her advance - watch how my father stands steady

balance pole dipping

thin leather slippers curved to the wire.

 

First Place

Frankie McMillan

Christchurch

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