wytchcroft

how many generations, how much language
downed like wine
to make daddy out of Daedalus
a romance of wire

it takes a father's love
to add feathers to wings
stitch back the wooden bones and hinges
let the child fly for him

like every child flies for him
but never very far from him
the salty taste of water on his lips
in waxy drips

how many candles lit then burned down to the wick
it's a feat of engineering
a child biting nails to the quick
so nervous of tomorrow and the world
and the sun into which each Icarus is hurled

oh so heroic
no wrathful God
no mountain top
no sacrifice intended

no recompense
no hope but for release
and no release

the wildest seas

so pull back the canvas
do not cry
put on your harness child
we must fly

yes, with the morning

we must fly