Minotaur by Marc Woodward


She sent stories,
recounted dreams.

A circus of fancies
strung out in leopard skin,
high wire and candle smoke.

The slow move of hand on thigh,
lip on temple, the brush of hair.
The ring mistress in a coloured bra
spread legged upon her chair,
commanding half lit other worlds.

Moving closer,
hooves clatter,
sawdust swirls.


Now at the ring rock tolmen
where icy water
melts from the cold moor,
curls over granite
scarpers though gravel,
she chooses to swim.

Some rite, some freezing pleasure,
some punishment perhaps?
Some way to cool the hot breath
of the minotaur who came
panting on her back?


Marc Woodward is a poet and musician resident in the West Country. He has been published in anthologies from Ravenshead Press, Forward Press, OWF, and in various magazines and web sites including Ink Sweat & Tears and The Guardian web pages.

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