to hear icarus fall would have been to listen to the sea. to
sink into a dream built of tumbling noise, of waves foaming
into each other, the erratic hollow thump of heavy water
heaving itself against bound planks. then forgetting sound
when the world darkens, when a shadow-cast ship with
sails ballooning to catch the brilliant sun brings you into its
sea-destined shade.
it passes; only the whistling sea birds extend their pinions
to break uncut light into fractured beams, their voices a
question on the bewildering limits of where earth meets
shining sea.
your life dwindling within reach of that deep, unresting
expanse – you begin to recognize a bending of distance,
know you no longer listen to the sound of each new wave.
their potency fades with the withdrawing of each tide, their
fickle voices insisting upon changing with each cry, a boy
falling into dark water is just another kind of splashing—no
different than the sound some half-forgotten sailors made
as bacchus, laughing, changed them into dolphins, then cast
them into opening green water.
echoes of that laughter – do you hear it? no… the distance
between time stretches far above this trembling prairie of
changing blue. only pale feathers drifting up from where
two legs disappear suggest an uncertainty.
but you are not wholly blinded; look and see: there stands a
languid shepherd leaning upon his twisted staff, back to
icarus, sea-gray eyes toward the skies.
perhaps he turned his head upon hearing the grieving keen
of a father.
or simply the melancholy wail of a great white bird, flying
away.
Almila Dükel is a writer and poet who currently resides in Türkiye. She has had her creative work recognized in a number of international contests. Her haiku have been published in several journals, with poems appearing in Modern Haiku, Frogpond, and The Heron’s Nest, among others.