ICARUS

The sun was at its summer height When he rose in soaring flight His wings beating with all their might Golden waxed in the golden light. Under Heaven he unfurled Like an unravelled bird While the waxing heat spurred Through the air like a golden sword His ambitious dream. Down below the falling world Rivers around hillsides curled Swathes of green grass swirled In waves upon the rich-purled Copse and crown of tree Now a distant vague history Hardly even a memory Of countryside he could barely see Pinned to green ground by some solid factory. The only sound he could hear High in the stratosphere Celestial music to his ear Was women’s voices, clear Voices that were so fleet Musical and sweet Voices with song replete Recalling with each splintered beat The glittering destiny of sunlight. He remembered them all Voices so beautiful Each one a Siren’s call Urging him to fall (and fall!). But to earth he dared not return Burned by the sun His gage not won His dream undone As the wax melts from his broken wings. He has fallen now from the Sun But the voices of the women Bright and golden Hold him as he is spun In air like a spinning, feathered, top He knows shall never stop Spinning in this azure drop Towards where his father lies And cries And dies All his golden visions burned by the golden light. Now Icarus descending Loves what the women sing Their voices golden to him Are now everything Life, dream, flight, And the gilded beauty of his own demise As he falls, only to rise.