To light upon branch and twig yet not to rest,
but into silence-
feathers unfed from wind,
wings hemmed in the stillness of mist and water;
soft, rippling waves search
for the shore where languid pleasure fades.
In the midday, perhaps, one lust, one dream-
to fly,
for small voices to be heard stringing through
the fog,
bend ye wings on these, on hopes. …
or shall we sate obedient.
Yet (surely) the fog shall rise, and many blackened
wings shall wane. …
soon, crowned with grey feathers,
and cold wind with icy fingers-
thrusting a hand before the lifted flight
(if thus it be, in a drop of time).
Copyright © 04/08/2016 lance sheridan®
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Fantastic images painting a canvas of a dismal season of life trying to get the strength to go forward – this is fantastic!
Barbara, thank you so much- your words are uplifting, thoughtful… your support of my work greatly appreciated!
🙂
brilliant
Thank you so very much!