The Shoulder of the Sun Part Nineteen will be featured Tuesday.
To visit Pavel Chichikov's website click *here*
By Pavel Chichikov
Outside in the street, and not a clue
Where Flora'd gone to, darkness growing thick
As if the gloom had stirred, become a gruel
Of burning streets, a congee of the cruel
‘Are you still there?' I said to Robin. If
Flora disappeared then what could stop
The boy from disappearing? But he laughed:
‘You won't get rid of me so quickly – Pop.'
‘I'm not your father, Robin,' I began –
Thought better of it, he was only twelve,
And speaking of another kind of gruel,
Faith's the starch that stiffens up resolve
Faith in me? But I was lost as he,
And yet though lost we might as well get started –
I'd keep his courage up, and mine as well –
A leader has no time to be downhearted
Many were the streets we walked along –
We stopped to speak with citizens who scuffed
And loitered speechless all along the road –
The sour smell of hopelessness was strong
Still the line-ups, still the disappeared
Thinned the crowds and yet no one could tell
What it was that took them, though they feared
They would be the next – an anxious hell
Finally a woman in a crowd
Who seemed less blunted told us in a voice
Combining terror with a veiled command –
‘The only hope is with the fisherman.'
I looked at Robin, and he looked at me –
‘What's the flower say?' His faced seemed thin
And pallid, though he nodded thoughtfully –
‘The flower's sending rootlets through my skin.'
My own skin crept. ‘But can't you pull it out?'
He shook his head – ‘I don't think that I can,
But when the woman spoke it moved and twitched –
Perhaps we'd better find that fisherman.'
