“Scraps of blackthorn blossom fleck my coat,Felix Dennis
Another gust of hail, and down they float;
A fine spring this— the earth as cold as stone,
North-easterlies that cut you to the bone.
The primroses have withered, one by one,
The bluebells cower, praying for the sun…”
Some sunny Easter Sunday blackthorn blossom as I rambled with my Ricoh today -(and just noticed that the blossom seems to be decorating a cross or two!). With an incoming cold weather front, this poem is spot on
Escape was not enough.
When Icarus took flight
it was as a tumbling acrobat
lifts to the thrill. But even before earth
could claim him back, the waxen wings
touched thermals, and he was heedless as eagle.
A soaring, circling condor, then sky pilot
aerobatting each upward thrust
through Olympian clouds.
He did not see the gods. Only felt the heat
of angry breaths. Heard the fates singing
to the winds that tore at his wings
and tornadoed him down
to his drowning.
Still we humans carry that same hubris.
Head to the heavens as climbers,
pilots, paragliders, speed flyers
or base jump, skydive,
just to taste that Icarian freefall.
– Me, I take flight only in imagination
beachcomb for feathers from drowned seabirds
and wish on them for just such derring-do.
Written for the photo prompt #153 from the Sunday Muse