tagNon-Erotic PoetryThe Eagle: Glosa

The Eagle: Glosa

byThe Poets©

The Poets:
Lauren.Hynde, WickedEve, JUDO, Cordelia, silken_dreammaid, lickmyboot




       Mote

       He clasps the crag with crooked hands;
       Close to the sun in lonely lands,
       Ring'd with the azure world, he stands.

       The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
       He watches from his mountain walls,
       And like a thunderbolt he falls.

         "The Eagle"
         Alfred Lord Tennyson, 1809-1892





Glosa

He stands alone, dark and upright;
in his chest, promise unbound,
from his lips no smile, no sound;
only the mute clandestine rite
of holding firm against the ground.
He reads the sand of future strands;
he clasps the crag with crooked hands.

He eyes details in grains shifting,
though sea rakes smooth the sanded sheet,
dissolving words as waves retreat.
What will be is seaward drifting,
but he knows the tides will complete
the answers washed away from sands,
close to the Sun in lonely lands.

Above sea, he surveys his realm
of targets, currents, rocks, and waves:
the distant master knows his slaves.
Bespoke o'er eons to guide this helm,
his gold eyes see those quickened knaves.
Goal locked and ready, he make his plans,
ring'd with the azure world, he stands.

He sees the crags, like giants, stand
against the waves' relentless moan.
Undoubtful, he becomes as stone
and deems the world at his command.
The rocks become his earthly throne,
the cliffs, terrestrial castle walls:
as wrinkled sea beneath him crawls.

Beyond the horizon, he seeks,
from his granitic parapet,
voices of those who'll not forget
borne aloft in the winding shrieks.
Too high to succumb to regret,
too proud to break his silent pall,
he watches from his mountain walls.

He breathes in deep the blackened skies.
A final taste: wind's sighing mock.
All too aware, Death's measured clock.
Eyes opened wide, he picks his prize.
Above the clash of sea upon rock
the time has come, it's Blood who calls
and like a thunderbolt he falls.


 

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