This poem was published by Ink Sweat and Tears in January 2017


Foolish: to not know how
to work your own wings.
On the ground, people stare,
they can see them protruding.

You keep them concealed,
as best you can, but now
and then a feather falls,
almost giving the game away.

It’s not that they’ve never
worked (that’s what worsens
the blow). Once you’ve soared,
walking just isn’t the same.

The dull thud of feet verses
the silence of gliding, plus
the swishes, the swooshes,
the glances-up of admiration.

If only you could remember.
What you would do for a spell,
a recipe, a formula, a diagram …
a You-Tube clip to follow.

You walk to the block of flats
where you namelessly reside
and take the lift up to the roof
for the one-thousandth time.