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-
for small voices to be heard stringing through
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®