A very free translation from the Irish.

I drive north into hill country,
the hard breast of the hills;
the car straining over the slopes,
yielding to the inexorable authority
of the gears. The way is difficult,
the weather uncertain, my bones weary.

I lift my eyes to the sky’s curve;
the heavy clouds thick with the threat
of snow and sleet, storm-signs,
thunder’s explosive potential.

But suddenly, emerging from the clouds
out into the blue-green immensity of clear sky,
the slim silver figure of a glider, wings rigid –
a cross carved on the face of the firmament,
a blessed and unexpected revelation.

The thermal currents carry him beyond logic;
hanging on nails of belief, feathers of faith;
a man defying gravity, the storm dogs
snapping at his fleeing heels.

Man and metal merging, burnished
in the brilliance of sunlight;
a messenger from Olympus,
a harbinger of hope, pure and bright.

Bill Fitzsimons

This entry was posted in Poetry. Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *