Of Summer's Passing

Held in thrall, yet curled about the trajectory,
today the swallows will depart to reclaim their Nile.
But now, still early, they circle on warm thermals
in memory of Summer's joy, awaiting the compulsive driv
e.
The stone sphinx also awaits, smiling, feline, in the san
ds.
Listen, the falcon, the buzzard, the hunting birds: beware.
Listen, then, the distant call of unspoken warnings: the whisper.
There is France, mist-cloaked and argumentative.
There are ice-wrapped Alps, toothy old Dolomites.
There is ancient Italy, umber brown, sensual sleeping.
There are gorgeous seas, yet always the hunters.
See the shadow and see yourself in flight,
yet know also the talons, know the strik
e.
And still the swallows drift, awaiting the c
all.
Within the conspiracy of doubt, we are the mechanic,
bruised, oily and blackened with false desire.
This is not the passion nor even its mirror.
Did not Michelangelo work in stone and learn the hardness of it,
or Giacometti pinch at clay to re-enact The Creation?
Oh, you strange masters, you conspiracy.
Should I reach out that we might touch hand to hand,
or swirl against you in divine flight? What is your dema
nd?
The smithy strikes out at the setting sun and declares night fallen,
yet I know this as declaration of a dream
that there I too might celebrate those darker depths
and hear compulsion's call.
Like the swallows, I wait