108 degrees
No word was given me, no legend no ringing play, no tapestry of the coming time. I did not know my name and of all things there was only the lapping light, the sword and sharp sand beneath my feet. The light is red thread on the clock 4:48. Incomplete--an hour of wet salts and seven men murmuring. This ward has no name. This hour has no name. The clock is patient, its stern lines static, fixed. I whetted the sword with apples washed the blade in the leaping waters and the hilt budded forth in peachflower, the steel light trembled and was still. The walls are blank crosses. Their patience! They wait, chained by a gallows drip, caught by needles. Here there is a flutter of a nylon veil and the time remains. My throat wet with life. Every heart is a dark forest. I press the sand to stand, gaze beyond the beachhead on arbors, halls of velvet greenness, tight tangles of Northern trees there, to shape princely deeds, to fight with dragons.
--Gabriel Olearnik
Gabriel Olearnik studied medieval history at University College, London. He is currently an attorney and practices corporate law. His first book of poetry, Amor de Lohn, is forthcoming.
