Slips from the eye-corner – overtaking
Your first thought.
Through your mulling gaze over haphazard earth
The sun’s cooled carbon wing
Whets the eyebeam.
Those eyes in their helmet
Still wired direct
To the nuclear core – they alone
Laser the lark-shaped hole
In the lark’s song.
We find the earth-tied spurs, among soft ashes.
And maybe we find him
Materialised by twilight and dew,
Still as a listener –
Blue shoulder-cloak wrapped about him,
Among the oaks of the harp.
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