Slips from your eye-corner – overtaking
Your first thought.
Through your mulling gaze over haphazard earth
The sun’s cooled carbon wing
Whets the eyebeam.
Those eyes in their helmet
Still wired direct
To the nuclear core – they alone
Laser the lark-shaped hole
In the lark’s song.
You find the fallen spurs, among soft ashes.
And maybe you find him
Materialised by twilight and dew
Still as a listener –
The warrior
Blue shoulder-cloak wrapped about him
Leaning, hunched,
Among the oaks of the harp.