Aloft, alight, ablaze the bloom
burns against the blue abyss:
frail filigree of mortal foam,
a breaking wave on Heaven’s shore.

A grateful eye could ask no more —
yet higher, brighter still than this
long skeins of swans in glory pass,
and curl like smoke and form again,
and heliograph their messages
like petals on a sunlit wind.

But never falling to the grass,
they call — they sail past — they’re gone…
and in their going somehow take
the breath away, and somehow make
the caged heart beat
its wings — and ache.

© 2018 D A Clarke

Retired; ex-software engineer. Paleo-feminist. Sailor. Arduino tinkerer. Enviro. Libertarian Socialist (Anarcho-Syndicalist, kinda). Writer. Altermondialiste.

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