Wings of ink expanding,
silent body held,
feathered grace demanding;
so we all are called.
Held in world material,
cold and hard beneath,
silent in its judgement;
angels at our feet.
Drawn upon the moment,
traced in dusted call,
tears do course eternal;
grieve because we fell.
http://margoroby.com/2015/01/27/poem-tryouts-take-wing/
Very interesting, Ros. I love the many textural elements of the poem, as well as the balance of the stanzas. This is lovely. I keep repeating the first line.
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