Arrows

He was briefly in our English Literature class. He attended for less than a term, leaving not long after an exercise in creative writing; the only piece I remember was his.

I am left with an impression only, of the rest of the class being somehow a condescending audience to his reading. He was by no means the least intelligent. It was a straightforward conceit: a report of a dream.

I can hardly see in here. Just looks like a smudge. Probably nothing.

Arrows were raining down on him. He was being killed. A shower of arrows puncturing his body. This comes to me now as a scratchy yet sophisticated drawing, where each arrow curves a little to show its flight. And the colours are like age-stained parchment and any black, when scrutinised, is actually the darkest red.

Colander. Sieve. Shower head. Watering can rose.

Then he left the class, school ended and he did well. Sales was his thing. I saw a Youtube clip of him giving motivational speeches: absolutely believing himself for the camera, for the audience.

On your marks. Get set. Believe.

His arrows chase me.

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About grahamcliffordpoet

Graham is an award winning poet, based in London. He graduated from the University of East Anglia with an MA in Creative Writing, and has since published nationally and internationally, winning many awards and performing at some of the most prestigious and well known Literary Festivals. His debut collection, The Hitting Game, is published by Seren.
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