Clare Hornsby

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Love as flying

For every strong under-wing-lift
Sent across the new star sky
By the December wind
Driving the falcon far and
Fast above the black garden
And for every hope that follows her
In her fearlessness

There is the sharp plunge to the bare branch
The comfortless perch
The no-home-from-home
The sudden ache of failure
And limbs too weak to bear the body
That holds the heart.

So free, so good
Though flying is a solitary journey.
Where is the warm hand-in-glove
I thought I saw
Held out for me to settle on?
Withdrawn - and in its place
The metalled river leads the way
For the approach to land.
Those loud sad flights forever
Descending, across each dark London morning.