by Nick Gisburne
The whistle’s note drifts, eery, from the east
Its penetrating discord shakes the sky
It blows to rouse a graceful, iron beast
Ferocious, yet intelligent of eye
Its rider fits an arrow to her bow
A slender shaft as bright as summer straw
Pulls back, pulls to the limit, lets it go
Grips hard the saddle, knuckles red and raw
The dragon stretches, heaves its monstrous wings
Long arcs of flashing brilliance and light
With pistons, pumps and mighty iron springs
It races hard to match the missile’s flight
And with a stunning, acrobatic twist
Its teeth have plucked the arrow from the sky
The rider beats the saddle with her fist
And whoops a wild, exhilarating cry
Their games draw spinning trails of smoke and steam
Until the mighty engines burn too low
Reluctantly, with one last whistle’s scream
She turns the iron dragon east to go
And there, beyond the gaze of other eyes
The rider feeds the dragon and they rest
Tomorrow they will play and paint the skies
When fire burns again within its chest
