medusa

The Medusa

?

I painted a picture of a tranquil bay, a red boathouse

rowing boat, golden pebbles in shallow water

naturally, the sky was blue, the mountain afar hazy.

A noise upstairs, the woman rearranging furniture

doesn’t go out and gets bored, breaking the dream.

When she was done, I looked at the painting again

it had changed; the boathouse had holes in the roof

?the mountain was too close, gloomy and snowy

?In the sea, a medusa, with tentacles reaching

70 years back in time when the aside was spoken

lasted into the future.

The sting of the medusa had a woman’s face, stung.

When the aim of the bite had gone, the hurt had not

putrid through the ages, a wound that does not heal.

The upset said: “we can no longer tolerate this slight

against us.”” We are a proud nation.”

No one knew what the remark was about, it had been

vindictive, and a demand for a historic apology was issued.

Sabre rattling, ambassadors left armies at borders

?war broke out.