To look down on a field of flax <br />is sky enough <br />so what are they all doing <br />looking up, just looking, <br />planted knee deep <br />in scented grass <br /> <br />They all look ecstatic <br />and flight crazy, <br />stone deaf as Icarus <br />in a maelstrom of lift <br />that kites the buzzard <br />and the hard white glider <br /> <br />This is a great day out <br />that slips to stasis <br />like failed flamenco: <br />blood earth is felt <br />while heaven teases <br />by way of the clouds. <br /> <br />Is there no pity? <br />Such weight of yearning <br />might crush this hill. <br />Will no-one sprout wings <br />for the tremulous breeze <br />and simply let go <br /> <br />nudge out from the ridge <br />to meet the moment <br />the moment <br />before reflection.<br /><br />Clive Turnbull<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/letting-go-43/
