Sycamore
by
Michael
Conaghan
Email: jane@hardy91.fsnet.co.uk
It was
an act of self-discovery
the first
time that I dropped a sycamore seed,
Astonished
watched it helicopter down
Describing
perfect multi-bladed circles.
Some instinct
drew me to it, perhaps
Its clutch-friendly
shape, that button
With its
wind-blown comet tail
Flat against
my outstretched palm.
There's
a knack to it, of course.
After that
first accidental flight
I struggled
to repeat the process.
Not every
seed took wing, some
Were too
damp or too frayed,
Some I
launched ham-fisted
In my eagerness.
But when the breeze
Caught
and the little blade span
Time missed
a beat to catch the moment.
Perhaps it's
true these fragile pods
Were the
dark link between the dreams
Of Leonardo,
the gunships that darken
Desert
skies, and the merciless paradiddle
That keeps
a child awake all night
In Belfast
or West Bank. Who knew?
Today I
picked one up, turned to gauge
The wind,
then flipped it into eternity.
It flew
and flew.
