A Dove in Eagle’s Clothing
There are things that move in this house
their presence rippling below every surface,
But is it the movement of the snake or the dove,
does it come from below, is it born from above?
Some things rise in the darkness of day or of night
a draw, a lure, a longing, a searching…
Yet the finding gives but melting crumbling taste
touching and turning reveals no diamond, but the glint of paste.
But sometimes Fire stirs, fanned by Holy Wings
kindling speech or silence, inviting me in or sending me out,
Then effort, seeking, finding produces a joyful sigh
“At last” the Snake flees, from the Hunter in the skies.
Stinging, biting, slithering things fear The Dove, it is not the other way
for in the land where The Lamb is a lion, The Dove is an eagle,
Armed with swooping speed, sharpened talons, keenest vision
Deadly to Death, Destroyer of Destruction.
Feeding her chicks on the kill of every fearful thing
their eyes begin to open, their wings ready themselves to fly,
Wisdom hovers to unsettle the safe confining nest
knowing that in fresh free air, wings beat best.
Copyright, Kenny Borthwick
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