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.
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