Larks

The tangled sadness of souls lost Between Heaven and Earth, Eternally on their way, Lifting upwards, Soaring, Climbing. Only to feel the ground’s pull, The unseen ropes. Trapped in intermediation. They have left us without leaving, Departed without arriving, No sweet Lethe for them, No afterlife among ethereal Beauties bathed in eternal light, No rest in a perfect balance, Outside the toss of seasons. So this is purgatory, This hell of a half-way house. Stretched out in an Agony of elongation, We can sometimes see them In the wriggle of smoke In striated clouds. They are the larks, perhaps, That dive into the sky and climb Climb Climb Until their frightened tiny frantic panic Sends them spiralling down Down Down To the thin air over the cruel stubble Of dead wheat.