Meadowlark.

I wish to soar in nature's eye with the 
skylarks.
They seem to have so much fun,
chattering amongst themselves
and laughing as they loop around
the tree tops
and tread the air with ease.

I watch from my field below,
jealous at the way sunlight glides down their backs
and propels them forwards,
their muted ochre plumage casting
bronze shadows over my home.
Breathless, they land overhead in the oak
and watch as the clouds roll in.

I have waited, nestled amongst the branches
that gave me a mask,
a cloak to disguise my true self,
until I was ready to be seen.
Deeps breaths now, as the droplets
fall from the depths of above,
and set the stage for my first entrance.

A small creature flitting around the unknown.
The skylarks are watching,
I can feel their gaze rest upon my chest,
a bold yellow ricochetting against a dark grey backdrop.
I ascend, streamline to the heavens,
until the clouds
break
and I am illuminated.

Categories: Poetry

South

"A simple being with the hair and heart of a lion"

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