A poem on the fall from grace of a Paralympic legend. Written by Luke Edley.
It was a false start:
her heart stopped,
a breath cut short
by the starter’s gun.
Once so gainly,
we saw a sprint halted
by a misstep of foul play.
Called to the starting block,
a head hangs low
wracked in stoic torment.
With steps retraced,
you ran the gamut,
dwelling on a breach
too ungamely for words.
Once, you fielded hubris,
astride such chutzpah.
Lauded for pace, showered
with praise, you soaked up
the adulation of millions.
This hard-won kudos is gone:
you appear before us,
a sullen figure,
faded, distant, aloof,
sporting a lope staggered
by an unforgivable hurdle
you’ll never surmount.
With dreams dashed,
the melting gold drips
into the smelting pot,
snaking its way down
the final furlong
of a stretch behind bars.
© 2014 Luke Edley
END
Image © Roy Blumenthal (www.royblumenthal.com), licensed for reuse and modification under a Creative Commons license. (Changes were made to the image width and elements of the picture were extended to fit the size of the banner).
Roy Blumenthal (@RoyBlumenthal)
4 Dec 2015Good poem, Luke. I love the idea of the melting gold. Kind of powerful reminder that yesterday’s achievements mean very little. And that he has to hock his goods to pay for his legal fees.
Thanks for using my picture. And thanks for your extremely clear attribution notice. This is a model for how attributions should be. Thank you!