A Poem for an Archer
A target pinned and solid-seeming
but mine is all in motion
I draw the bowstring back
and farther back
Were I to let it fly would it sink deep?
But now my muscles shake
fingers torn against the string
velocity all poorly aimed
I cannot decipher which target is my own
Can I split this arrow with the force of my own wishes,
shower the sky with a quivering flight,
live out each peculiar path?
Or must I choose now
release my hold
wide-eyed or blindfolded
poised or confused
Nigel Borrington 
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