Swift

Bosch's dream, a moon of bird slices the air.
A mournful scream, for the dying sun.
For forty years, like me, he has curled,
waiting for this night to come.

Born on wing, his loving parents far asleep.
The blade of feather spends his life at run,
and dolphin play with scribble-insect prey,
now toxic, like his fun.

Each dark liquid mirror eye holds
ten thousand fires of dawning sun,
and love, on endless joyous wing,
waiting for this night to come.

© Mark Sheeky. Permission is required for reproduction.