I came tumbling out of the air,
and seemed destined to sink into solid ground
to be rather quickly lost to view.
But no-one was looking anyway,
they all had other things on the go,
and there was, perhaps, a failure of focus,
an optical error of sorts.
So, this - a summer’s day, and I no longer flying,
but still above ground at least,
with eyes that continue to function
and a memory more or less intact.
I reflect upon the green of a hidden vineyard
on the steep south slope below the castle,
secure behind its walls of stone capped with tiles:
and a day I think I remember well.
A summer afternoon - black nightshade and fumitory
rambled peaceably between the vines,
and a robin sang to us
from atop the ivied gatepost.
I must have been flying that day,
for somehow I still see all of it from high above,
you and me together there, so long ago;
but blink, and this, strangely, is now.
Now I am lost from view behind French windows,
where nobody sees me or cares overmuch;
I dwell on vines and robins and annual weeds,
and on you, only as I remember.
Long ago: I remember too that in those lovely and love-filled days,
when it was all beginning, when hope fuelled our flying,
I could not truly imagine the falling,
the light dying, the soil cast across me.
Now I can, and only too well; but it is not quite dark,
and I am able still to dream of flying at least,
while green, they say, is the last colour one can see
as the daylight fades.