Sunday, 2 September 2018

The Eagle.

The Eagle.

In high, wild wind 
I watch her ride corridors of air.
The wind is in her pinions,
in the effortless deftness
and minute calibrations
of her circling glide.
My blurred, distant world
is her sharp focus.
An easy surge corrects her path
and she veers rapidly away
on another current of air.

My voice is a thin whisper 
on the high mountainside.
“Queen of air, 
with dagger talons, 
scimitar beak,
gowned in barred brown
and robed in wings more glorious 
than garment of embroidered gold,
how you glide, dive and spiral
in majesty and mastery.
Fly close, fix on me
your clear and amber eye,
share with me,
you, who are so high and noble,
so fierce and wild,
so unshackled and free.”

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