Andrew Fildes

How long can it be before we try to choke
Down organically certified, humanely plucked,
Minced feathers as an alternative remedy
To compensate feebly for our malady:
The losing of that joy of flight.

I can’t reach those wounds, writhe as I might.
The raw and itching stumps now pain me more
With time, the two phantom limbs still sore
And no lotion, no strange or foreign balm,
Applied externally of course, will calm
This poignant longing for the wind.

Did we find a mere arthritis, feel it bind,
These other joints, and fall, icarussed and blind
To earth? The sudden white concussion of the beat
Stilled; stalling, spinning down to find our feet
Dependant now upon these lesser limbs.

Was it a consequence of catastrophic sins
Or some more childish fault, that left us pinned
To earth? Now view restricted, horizon lifted,
We are no longer found among the gifted.