Poem — John Davidson

Parsifal We all shoot the swan in youthful trespass ignorant of our misdeed. Not all of us, though, get off so lightly and get a second chance to be embraced as saviour fool. And the second chance, if it comes at all, is first a hesitant welcome home after years of wandering through the doubts and blood of blandishments and bad Fridays. There is still the defining kiss to encounter and break free from, and the flying spear to grasp before it can strike its numbing blow. That would again demand an abdication from the power to rule and radiate

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