There’s a parrot in a tree,
There’s a girl in a blind fold,
as still as a cloud in the sky —
who’s a good boy then?
He cocks his head to listen
to the basso profondo, the sharps
and flats, the basso profondo again.
The sun’s going down,
The bats are cleaning their nails.
Owls get ready for the nachtwacht.
For centuries the bell in Rudo was rung like this:
three times for the death of a man,
two times for the death of a woman,
then a bright, clear note,
for every year of life.
Arc-lights and bulldozers.
A hot night’s work by the Drina,
there’s a pit behind the stadium;
now the sun pours down like a cauldron of honey —
The scoreboard shows 1.0 for Nadia’s perfect ten.
There’s no history, no precedent.
The hardware can’t take it anymore.
How many times should we ring the bell
for the black hole behind the stadium?
Laurence O’Dwyer | Magi
Contents | Mudlark No. 75 (2023)