wings

Whether or not they are of angels
or just the makeshift would-be
of human flight from humdrum
to grace, theirs is a sudden restlessness
on buoyant shoulders, an uplift
aimed at joy and making it.
So for every earthbound thought
there's the counter-weight,
a grief that covers its face in shame
then rises with the season
as if from sleep, unfolding wings
to journey through the brightness of the air.

-- John Mole

John Mole