Flights

Flights

Late gasp of blank sun, slant glow,
clear eyes. I think of you sitting there
in tiny fractures like a river delta. Wisps of smoke
as if from embers. I would hold you if I could
but I can’t. Beginnings are always the hardest part,
weighed down by hope. Dreams of flights in a transparent blue
immeasurable twilight. Up. The world
in a hazelnut. Reach out your hand,
heavy with earthen rectitude; beatitude
to live openly, receptive to the tiny things
that matter not. Your brittleness sings
when you look at me sometimes.
Like a sequence of beads
balanced on the edge of a glass.
Glass beads on a glass edge
making the light bend.
Now you are elsewhere
in some other sequined space
and all I want is for you to be here
slowing down the light,
bending the light.

____
Simon Ravenscroft lives in Cambridge, England.