He took the first cut, stood on the edge of the stage and sliced the enchanted air with his sword. Three of us flkinched in unison. He cut me a poem from a leprochaun's lime-lined jacket, bent my ear to the zinc-clink of rain in a metal bucket, tuning the day for our delight. Warm blood scrolled from the tip of his blade. Where is my gypsy wife? he cried. The first cut is the unseen one, making the line clear behind it, energised in red. The rain perfumed the air with possibility. A dandelion clock teased time beyond where we thought we'd be. He took the first cut, like charity itself, and none of us knew where the next cut would come from. But for the moment, just then, he was mine.
The copyright of this post belongs to Claire Steele
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