Snuck amid the shuffle and wrap of passing people,
A cool wind in the ear, he took up of a sudden,
Wheeled like a swallow into the tide of commuters
And was lost to our eye; we conjure his pleasure
At flying along the river's wide calm to its throat
And then who knows what happens there?
I flew, when I was two, or hovered. About six inches
Above the carpet, outside my bedroom door. Then one day
I could not cram into the lambswool romper suit and
Crippled myself. I was fine, but could no more fly
Than magic a boat with my breath. This admission
Provokes in me a certain languor, a studied position.
Of the mind we shall say much of nothing
As I am in pieces of a bad world today;
The brain's a describing mistake, it's what makes us
Romantic, and shot through with religion,
Not like dry rot, but rather wood riddled with wood.
I'm heading for that rig to perch a while, which I do.
If you've any comments on this poem, Sam Brenton would be
pleased to hear from you.