Near a Heathered Glade
I could scarcely behold your coming,
gliding silhouettes in the dawn’s behest.
Legs and reeds cast shadows the same,
and darting neck has a serpent’s stealth,
yet a caress of dancing angels …
Then to sleep with one foot held high,
as if to deny the draw of Earth.
Why then the fear of flight to come,
for none is more graceful on the wing?
You all stamp about as if confused,
with ruffled feathers and gangly steps –
awaiting for one brave sister
to prove that heaven is yours by right.
Have you then so quickly forgotten
how to launch and fly so proud and grand
that you must have proof of demonstration,
while simple faith should call you up and on?
A butterfly may be enough in truth,
but I can serve as well this magick day,
and send an arrow forth and above
that you might follow the rising sun.
On the morrow I may not be here,
or found unable to draw this bow;
and can but offer silent prayer
that another spirit will guide you home.