Trevor Conway
Flock Above Glencar
The distant hiss of the waterfall
calls to mind a swan I fed
– and somehow offended – here as a child.
Even now, I can’t quite name
the blatant wrong I must’ve done.
I’ve always been too clumsy,
with words and grasp and dumb emotion,
to understand how I transgress.
I’ve done it again,
now a man
(too much a man)
with eyes attuned to a grey cloud
smudged across a salmon sky.
And why should a sunset be shared?
I’ve always heard the universe best
without a tether,
and always the right words
between head and page.
A shadowy flock
twists to the shape of a thumbprint,
each separate bird
with enough poise to inherit the sky
instead of wondering what the next one thinks,
but a lone bird is exposed
to the will of something so much stronger,
and these I see, above Glencar,
know it’s best to fly together.
