Written in a writing workshop following a reading of "Woman on the Moon" by Jean Harrison.

His hands and legs are crippled,
his back snapped,
his curved over figure presented to me
as a warning.
'It was him,' they whisper,
'who went too close,
melting the wax that held
the feathers, the bone, the straps.
He only has himself to blame.'

And yet, and yet,
it was him
who felt the heat, the rush,
the backdraft to his stomach,
smelt the sulphurous gases,
saw the orange centred volcanoes swirling,
before he fell.
And there must be
in that.