Poetry

Eyrie

At the low curve of the dive
the earth will rush up
and explode into a brooding mass —
to the heft and march of brute peaks.

At the eagle's whim and smug rise
the mountain's thrust is diminished to
a white repose, a lazy slumber,
an empty contour

conquered with a wave. From this height
the land between each horizon nestles
in the width of his span: the bird
in the dead nest, toying with his miniatures.

The sheer depth irons creases from seas;
seclusion turns all distance to abandonment.

Catriona McLean