High Flight
The mountains are their playground,
the crags, the fell, the muscular ridge,
the scouring dale, the tumbling water,
the gliding, striding, sliding edge.
Beating time like boatmen,
their pinioned oars hum in the stiff’ning breeze.
Dark against the weather,
they surf the breaking storm.
The sudden call, the stall, the mock attack,
the plunge; the breakneck beak.
The other, swerving to the pass
makes high speed chase above the grass.
They’re such show offs! Like clowns,
they chuckle, roll over, fly upside down.
Like trapeze artists, they swing on the wind,
As free as the fall; so near, so close to rocky death.
Published on:
August 25, 2009
