I was known for my skill,
indeed I built the great labyrinth
– for which they imprisoned me.
So when I made our wings
I made them well, worked the wax,
chose all the feathers carefully.
I didn’t know if it could work.
I knew the theory and some facts,
used all my art and trigonometry.
People forget now that I flew too.
I didn’t just stand and cheer below
to watch Icarus ascend the blue.
I warned him not to get excited.
Not to soar too high,
climb too close to the sun.
I made no promises either.
But now people look at me
as if to say “he killed his son”.
I only dreamed of escape
– he shared that dream with me.
Was I so wrong?
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.