Empty Eyrie

Image Courtesy : http://www.stephenfisherphotography.com

I’m not a poet. Words give me the strength to cope with feelings that overwhelm. I write them down in my diary, in my blogs. This time they poured out in the form of a free verse. 

High on the crags,

she stood.

Majestic, proud.

Head held high,

neither a flicker;

nor a flick.

 

Her golden eye,

keen; sharp.

Surveying

from her high top,

how lay the land.

 

In the eyrie below

her eaglet crooned,

the last of the brood;

the rest fledged.

All too soon.

This one remained.

 

He loomed towards

the nest’s edge.

She waited,

breath bated.

He peeped; withdrew.

Zeus’ favored,

this, would not do.

 

Resolve made,

nerves steeled.

She swooped; pushed.

He plummeted!

He fumbled!

He sank!

He fell!

Doomed!

 

She watched.

Heart thumping!

Breath hitching!

Mind berating!

Was it too soon?

Was it an error?

What had she done?

 

Then he rose.

Majestic, proud.

Head headed high,

with not a backward glance;

towards the horizon

The sun his cohort.

The moon his guardian.

 

High in the eyrie,

She watched.

Majestic, proud.

Head held high,

neither a flicker;

nor a flick.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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