For three or four months it has got a life
The antlers shine, the wing-covers gleam,
Precise as a Fabergé egg, it is whirling
It lumbers, it zigzags, it banks and veers,
In the wake of its whirring, something stays
and is testing it here - a miracle toy
that is all contraption, a Swiss army knife
in mid-air with all its gadgets deployed.
the wings vibrate - the whole device
shakes with effort, alarming as a dream
no flight engineer would wish to have it twice.
through the summer dusk, cruising for a fight:
later, after it has got its girl,
it will sup at the oak tree's sappy delights.
tacking up to the crowns of the trees -
ungainly, yet able to commandeer
the fickle angles of the evening breeze.
like the ghost of a smile, imprinting the air
with an echo that outflanks the passing days
and lays time's clockwork contrivances bare.
With grateful acknowledgments to Bloodaxe Books.