• The Fledgling

    ‘To fly,’ you say?
    ‘Not I,’ you say,
    Scared of flight,
    Stiff with fright,
    You stand and you sway.

    Out in the trees,
    Up on the breeze,
    ‘I can’t do it,’ you lie,
    ‘No, I can’t even try,’
    ‘But,’ you cry, ‘there must be a way!’

    Now do you see?
    What this means to me?
    That I must fly,
    Be one with the sky,
    The instincts I must obey.

    My time has grown near,
    My precious, my dear,
    Take this: my feather,
    Forget me never.
    I must return to the clay.

    That was long ago,
    I am still broken with woe,
    But joy in this thing I’ve become,
    But running forever from
    The monster of that sorrowful day.

    I ride the wind now,
    This to all the trees must bow,
    Its magnificent power,
    The storm clouds tower,
    I’ll face them head-on, come as they may.