His wax wings melted, and he plummeted downwards
but the fall into the teal-blue Aegean did not kill him
sun struck and with a scorched back he was rescued
by fishermen and dumped onto the harbour of Delos
There he would remain until he died decades later
During that time, he became a semi-reclusive tinker
A secretive scribbler, hiding from the sun, nocturnal
He stalked the back streets with gangs of stray cats
Other times he’d get drunk and climb onto scaffolds
expounding on aerodynamics and the beauty of flight
complex free-associated ideas shouted at such speed
few of us below could keep up even if we did listen
After he died several volunteers, upstanding citizens
gathered to clean his lodgings and distribute his things
Forcing open the door and letting in harsh dawn light
they entered into the secret workshop of a broken man
The notebooks and diaries of Daedalus were piled high
His work desk was covered in diagrams of bird’s wings
and bats. Broken model flying machines covered the floor
A full-length cabinet full of tools was open and ransacked
He had spent ashen years dreaming of a means of escape
longing to once again feel the rush as his feet left the ground
he tried enumerable methods for building durable wings
but the master builder’s son lacked his father’s skilled hands.