Where do you fly, my love?

How could you leave me here again

in summit high bereavement?


At night I gently lift

the pieces, fold them,

mould them, make them 

whole once more


and wait with breath held

for the rising of the distant dawn

until, at last, I see -


my soaring nemesis

approaching winged

and growing closer

framed against the sun.


StarFields 1998