Two Weathered Flying.A Poem by Ken Simm.
Mated Eagles Confounded.
A landscape painted clearer from above. Two specks wild soaring. Approaching the terminal yet stretched and screeching across slippery rock and steeled ringed crag. Wing pinioned close then quickly angled before veering away proud. Nothing but young flight memories.
Desperate storms of fighting flight through valleys of old grey ruined men with guns. Golden light hackled feathers raised in shafts of yellow sun. Searching for faint fur or feathered movement through a natural skewbald light
Cry and cry echo into a faint blued distance. Dirty talon held hell bent, scaled devil yellow and black. Sharp beyond black terror.
Wind preyed, peat bogged and cotton rag blown. Torn hidden turf with watching pinprick eyes flashing light. Passing over still old carrion left swinging in a banshee screaming wind.
Bending folded air, feeling jewelled light, faster than wild storm wind, then so blood slow. Beating drum searching.
Cross river, stringed exposed and rilled silver, meandering through green and brown elder velvet, soft and wet. Old bones left poking out against watercolour sunlight. Flash and dark, reed rock and moss treasured islands.
Warmer air lifted beyond, falling into invisible valley's with old ruins lying, very dead grey stone. Rising to the obvious, prouder, still powder snowed, airy summit heights. Submit to the ponderous wind.
First pair hunting. Soared mate calling response and playing, passing above clawed prey. Sight cleared across chasms and tea stained falling water. Green patched horizons turned around into sharper painted frames. Waved hills rolling into deeper atmospheric perspectives. Character in speed changing air. Reaching, rising above and golden flown.
Finished with blooded fur, tearing into muscle and stretched tendon on white dropped and old brown stained rock. Ivory spine broken into shivering death.
First heart beat falling into shadow cold depth. Second rising to catch a light that shines across a peat whisky warm detailed back. Silhouette turning away against sky white blankness. Nail metal black beak open and calling.
Twice discovered landscape, centered on intent dark eye membrane flicking. Pointed as a b*****d wing hand stretched to wind and curved air.
Falling pinion tight and roaring from the firing downward of a sky cannon.
Turning up blind as always before until a promised kill points to a failed death on a man tamed range slope and a final escape.
Rise in temper screeching, beating short speed bursts to a greater god height.
No more damned but survived faces looking blankly upwards. Was dead and gone, this sight once more.
© 2012 Ken Simm.
About'I should not talk so much about myself if there were anybody else whom I knew as well. Unfortunately, I am confined to this theme by the narrowness of my experience' Thoreau. more..