Thursday, August 31, 2006

From Rhosili Down















The modern Icarus
Lacks the technology
To fly too near the sun.
His imagination
Is horizontal,
Beneath stiff wings
He launches out
Into the blue of the bay
And looks down
On the inconsequential dots
Lost on the expanse of sand below.

But his freedom
Is an illusion.
He lifts and soars only
Where the wind wills.

Later
Walkers pass him by
As he limps along the beach
Trailing his clumsy apparatus behind him,
Like a bedraggled swan
Trailing a broken wing.
They sympathise
With his predicament
And carry on,
Talking about wings
They’ll never try.

No hangliders the last time we walked around Rhosili. A couple of days ago a jogger fell to his death from these cliffs. He had run three miles across the bay, then decided to climb up the cliff face barefoot. He was 100 feet up before he fell.

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