Gravity

I suppose every child dreams of flying. I know I certainly did, and to little surprise - what better way to spend a lazy afternoon than freewheeling high above the tiresome, busy earth? Also, this is poem #150!


Gravity

For once the hills were high
as scuffed an ashen sky,
established summits swift to spurn repose
from eyries, hid in cleft,
and stony haunts, bereft
of brush and bramble, clouded from the crows,

where only eagles flew
upon a lonely skew
of eddies running, brisk, above the earth,
but now the land is worn,
the weary hummocks shorn
and shackled by the gravity of girth.

A better home for souls
who make their measured strolls
across the even alleys of the ground
could hardly be conceived.
And yet, are we not grieved
that fate has made us terra-firma bound?