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Some Departures |
Copyright 1983 by Colin Glassey
Davis, 1983 Next poem: East of Truk
We chart our courses like birds
Guided by stars and omens of glass
Those silver cities shimmering on the southern deserts.
I see a dense flock of small
Wings black like silhouettes on a field
Of azure-gray sky. Circling about, contracting
And expanding, like a beating heart in the air.
The birds are brush strokes in motion
Now thick and dark, now razor thin
Painting a confused dance of line on shadow
Their sorcerous ritual to conjure a fitting
Tree rest out of the growing darkness.
To finish before night's fall, they melt into the branches
They will be ready for the next day's migration.
My own sky is divided by crossing contrails
Some heading into troubled mountains of clouds.
Others stay high in the rarefied air, beyond
All hope or passion. And the ground weaves its own spell,
Tying me to grass with forces of time and memory.
Connived by bushes it seems hard
To move anywhere
To leave one love for the unknown
I'm drenched with the undertaking's expectation.
