One for Sorrow

Perilous, one might think,

to perch so uncertainly,

so close to the brink

of oblivion.

Yet she feared nothing.

She knew in her heart

her sodden, trembling wings

would carry her to the beyond.

Gossamer feathers shed themselves like tears

as her decaying body fought,

beaten down by so many years

of soaring the expanse of heaven,

Yet she feared nothing.

Her singular mind

fixated on the ring,

glittering, gleaming far below.

Her prize.

The gods lashed their fury down,

down,

down,

down,

drowning the earth with their wrath;

yet she feared nothing.

To others, she was elderly and worn.

Her body had lost its midnight sheen,

her wings no longer proud, but forlorn,

a mockery of her former glory.

Yet she feared nothing.

Age was not her enemy

but an enriching thing,

filling her mind with wisdom foreign to the youthful chicks that screamed below,

fleeing the flood,

trapped under waves that swamped all hopes,

diluted the fire in their blood

and clamped their wings.

Once she had ruled the sky.

Her youth was spent wheeling

and diving, then rising oh-so-high,

undefeated, unmatched, alone.

Yet she feared nothing.

She needed no mate;

her freedom allowed her to sing,

to caw her isolated melody into the struggling dawn.

Her eye had always been drawn to gold;

that shining, scuffed reward,

her only company now she was old

and solitary.

Yet she feared nothing.

In this final hour she murmured softly.

All of her fibres were pulsing,

drawn irresistibly to what-comes-next.

Her prize.

Puffed up and proud,

she shuffled towards the edge.

She feared nothing,

and embraced the depths,

plunging, streamlined,

hurtling down,

down,

down,

down,

skimming the borders of mortality,

chasing victory,

transfixed and besotted with

her prize.