Sunday, 6 June 2010

A Sestina on Icarus

You flew too high
to that place called the Sun.
You never should have tried
on things like wings
made of wax and dreams.
Of this your father should have foreseen.

Had you foreseen
this instead of getting high
and forgetting your dreams.
Where did the Sun
fade on life as fragile as wings
that all had tried

just like you tried
in a world foreseen
not to end on wings
but in a glory on high,
the father blessed by a Son
while we fall into dreams.

You ignored the dreams
in a fever of the tried,
forgot the Sun
blazing as foreseen
by the Mystic standing high
upon the mountain, where wings

soar, or sore, wings
of falcons, messangers of dreams
to fly and fly high,
reminding us that we had tried
to wonder that which was foreseen
in the patterns of the Sun.

Always it falls to the Son
to spread his wings,
to fulfill what was foreseen
in his father's dreams,
and that he had tried
but he flew too high.

Even the Sun has troubled dreams
of delicate wings that failed and tried
to ignore what was foreseen and fall on high.