Rivers often change their course,
though you may not see it in a lifetime.
The Magpie nailed me.
It was like being swiped aside with the flat head
of a claw hammer. I’m down on one knee
trying to stem the flow of bloody thoughts.
Axe, fire, poison, and gun
that black and white terror down.
A small stick, here at hand,
becomes a ninja star knife
travelling with cartoon speed as
the pied marauder rolls into another
low level swoop. Bastard! It wants to
finish me off.
Fortune favours the vicious
and karma is its own reward.
My darkness glowed with pleasure
as the bird spun and wheeled
into the distance.
Eventually, shaking the stick free
from its feathers.
My river run has become
a time of calm reflection,
leaving me to wonder
exactly what it is,
that the meek are going to inherit.
I'd appreciate any opinions as to whether this works as a poem or should i just try and write it out as prose.
