By Anne Palmer

High and Low

High aloft, adorned, to sit in metal tube
with wings of fuel and fire.
Far below, aged watch and muse.
A pension springs from such desire.
Up, yet further up, higher and higher
to worlds of silence.  And to wallow
among island clouds into that uncharted abyss
where no birdsong could follow.

Here was no shadow before man came
flitting fast across clouds below.
He rides with hope, there is no blame
for any stain upon the snow.

Each one leaving behind the echo
of their flight, the carriages of kings
rich and noble, marking the restless sky,
an unending river of wings.

The Wrong Image

She searched the face
purely out of vanity,
checking every minute detail
for flawlessness and clarity.
The eyes were warm,
the forehead expressive.
The mouth showed determination,
tenacity, someone possessive.
The hair was long and dark.
The nose slightly aquiline.
The mould of the chin showed integrity,
the skin both pale and fine.
The face was quite attractive
for one having seen some years,
but the lines on the face
were apparent, underlining her fears.
The likeness was there
she could not hide.
It was the cruel honesty
she couldn’t abide.
It was good, it was striking,
in fact there was no defect.
But the artist hadn’t been kind,
her portrait she would have to reject.

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