by Christian Ward
A group of walkers along
the Pennines noticed a silvery
speck during a bout of hail.
Some thought it was a balloon,
others, an umbrella. Billy
had read out UFO's once. Area
51 was a place he'd like to go.
Nobody noticed him waving
his arms to the object, feeling
it lift him up into its mouth.
The final glow swallowed him up.
All that was left on the ground
was his footprints, cold like snow.
© 2007 Christian Ward
Christian Ward is a London-based poet whose poetry
can be seen in journals such as Hecale, Word Riot, Why
Vandalism?, Nthposition and Outsider Writers.
He will release his fourth chapbook, Slippage, next
Find more by Christian Ward in the Author Index.
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