It Is The Bird That Is Stirred.

(My heart in hiding is stirred for a bird,

the achieve of, the mastery of the thing.

The Windhover. 

       G.M.H.)

 On such a day the big birds love to play,

when the wind is well and truly blowing,

with a few white clouds in a chaste blue sky,

 and the gulls and the rooks are way on high,

tossed here and there by the force of the air,

with no other purpose at all it seems

save the pure delight and the thrill of it,

for they are birds, beautiful big-winged birds,

and this is their time, their time to ..... let go.

 And I just wonder

if, in its state of lofty abandon,

one such most fortunate feathered creature,

one such glad elevated animal,

might, for some moments, opt to close its eyes

in the midst of that dizzying motion,

 to explore the regions of ecstasy,

there to seek to meet, to touch with its mind,

what we, we humans, are quite apt to call

the divine.