Echo and Narcissus

 

         after Echo and Narcissus, by Glyn Philpot (bronze with green patina)

 

 

Did either of them have a moment’s unease?

 

He, before the pool of social media reflected back all he wanted to see,

She, before she found herself cursed by the god of Abandon, that minor deity

of the Home Counties

 

who thought he had only to ask the people, give them a voice,

but leaving her with no more than an echo, brrrrexit, brrrrexit , bouncing

off the hard edges of our White Cliffs.

 

We all saw the ripple, grasping at her hand, the better to steady himself

on that slippery slope of state-craft, the downhill path of his first 100 days,

though she didn’t yet know that he should not be touched, nor she do the touching,

 

and that such a gesture would doom her to  that special relationship, 

for him never to offer anything that might speak of honour, of connection,

but dog her words, special, special, whenever she tries to speak her mind.

 

For now she knows that she is truly alone, his back turned to hers, blocking

out her sunlight,  for all she holds herself ready for that tender moment,

her own hands ready to caress.

 

 

Karen Izod

22.2.17