by Carol McKay

A black gull flaps against a cyan sky.
The long grass froths with morning’s latte dew;
the cat sits, silent, mindful of the fox
and chestnut roe deer lift their slender hooves.

A black bag wind sock whistles on the fence
as, wakened by first light, a robin sings.
Night moths flit to hide from day again
and the buzzard shakes his travel blanket wings.

The velvet pouch of dark is folding back,
casting Glasgow’s lights like scattered runes.
The prison, and the hospital, and we
are bracketed by Venus and the moon.

Night nurses patrol, like jailors, along corridors
past wakeful caged and dying, whose dry eyes
clutch the autonomic motorway’s
ceaseless drip of blood and plasma lights.

And you, our white dove, let out of the basket,
disconcerted, half asleep, unsure,
lacklustre, head for Aztec fire
seeking some kind of rebirth, some wholly pure

Phoenix quickening, wings beating arising
I hope you find. And we, burnt out, return
along the lightening circuit. The moon pales;
daylight eclipses Venus. The Earth turns.

© Carol McKay

Early Flight was written for Carol’s daughter Ruth when she left to live in Mexico. The poem reflects their journey from Hamilton to Glasgow airport at four in the morning, but there was another journey going on there too.

Visit Carol’s website www.carolmckay.co.uk to learn more about her writing, and read some short pieces of her work.