Wings of Song

 

Just me, and that sound.

One man,  earth and time-bound,; one bird, free in an empty sky

A unique occasion.

But a moment shared by so many others...

Which experience then, despite – or because even – of its unoriginality, I hope might justify another

 poem.

 

Lark

Is that it, that little speck –

is that the bird which never stops

to take a breath, the bird whose song

someone called a silver chain

of many links – can you see

where it begins, this chain of sound

linking me to somewhere high –

like the string of a kite, a vanishing line

which tugs with a life of its own, as if

sounds by themselves could draw me up

towards the origin of that song –

while all I can do is strain my neck

focusing upon infinity

as I scan the sky, seeking the source

of a singing that hints at eternity?