He grew up in a circus where
great grey beasts learnt to dance,
and big cats, minus their teeth,
learnt to roar
ferociously.

At first he was an acrobat,
tumbling and turning as only
a ten year old can.
Then at 18
he learned to fly.

Bare-chested and in sequinned tights
he swung and caught
the hands of
fellow flyers, who lived
to the same rhythm.

The crowds loved their champagne sparkle.
each jump and turn and twist
carefully choreographed
to produce
the greatest gasps.

Until one day the air betrayed him.
He fell.
The tent took a great intake of breath,
the crack of bones echoing in its canvas.

When they lifted him
His soft red imprint remained
in that dampened sawdust
where his spine
had snapped

The herd chewed on hay
And the tigers slept
as he passed,
passed out, on the stretcher.

Now he lives in the home
An anonymous toothless mouth to feed
and though he may roar
no one hears that anguished sound
and while he sits instead of dancing
no one believes that once
old John could fly.

But on a clifftop by the sea
he might feel the breeze against his skin
and hear the tigers toothless call
urging him to fly once more.