by Rachael Clyne
Sithee wingless, I am cum ter tek thee
fer tha’ll’t ne’er mek it alone.
I shall carry thee thru yon veil an’ on
where tiz same-colour as me coat.
Not one jot shall’t tha see in’t darkiverse folk call hell.
Peril is me name, fer perilous it be
till this fine beak, this wingspread
shall sail thee thru t’void to star-kissed heaven.
Hop on wingless, hold fast –
relish yon ride.
Rachael Clyne lives in Glastonbury. Her prizewinning collection Singing at the Bone Tree, is published by Indigo Dreams. Anthologies: The Very Best of 52, Book of Love and Loss, Poems for a Liminal Age. Magazines: Tears in the Fence, Prole, The Rialto, Under the Radar, The Interpreters House.
