I sit in quiet corners of
old thirsty rooms.
And when they speak
it is of,
flying horses
angels and fairies.
But their truth
holds out two arms, when
their wings
should be enough.
In another life
maybe next time,
I will face the weather
dressed in a sailor’s
cast off skin.
Or hatch out a dream of flight.
Painting the wind black,
with the point of my beak.
A chink in the sky, hot
sun licks my cheek.
And so without goodbye
we are gone
To a life in clouds.
©️ david/dai fry 29th November 2019.