Four eagles in a row escape from the horizon,
The line of land that defines understanding,
Beyond which everything is unknown.
They’re tin cans full of souls
Fighting gravity and history,
Fleeing the night to be burned in the sun,
Wings of feathers and wax
Flying in the wrong direction,
Their vapour trails
Smoke and molten glue,
Rivets of blue and gold.
A convocation of eagles circles
The desolate North Sea island,
Banks sharply towards the continent,
Where lands are joined without saltwater
Boundaries, and the clocks count
Different hours in a different light,
Where the cold is dry, the ground
Hard under their taloned feet,
Where rain falls as snow.
There is always a poet watching
Life’s futilities and certainties,
Painting visions from the simplest
Of realities, pulling the world apart
At its non-existent seams,
Making stories of
And eagles of aeroplanes.
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