Whielown


Soaring peacefully, unobtrusively,

reigning in isolation.

Circling quietly

in sensory desolation.

Silent sounds abound.


First one.  Then two.

And more. Lost.

North is new.

Goal at all cost.

Led to the dead.


In perfect formation 

folly takes flight.

Mark one; exhaustion.

Mark two; mental blight.

Mark three; errantry.


The flock in flames consumed.

A more distant peak is found

by heartfelt wound.

In circling bound,

Whielown’s prayer now known.


10/07

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