Leila Rae

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HEAT
She gathered Tom quickly out of the pram and held him up, hoping he too might see,
and perhaps remember. Three swans were flying a straight flight.
Elizabeth Bowen, In The Heat Of The Night.

I fly south to Madagascar,
singing love songs of Leda, Leda,
above Dover's whiteness crumbling into the sea,
and scribble prophesy against autumn's stormy clouds.
Below, a woman walks through the reeds and holds a child
high above her head; she points at my whiteness against the noon sun.
My neck stretches long and slender; my eyes eager on the horizon; my music
whispers magic in the wind; I chase the sun. The child cries, but he will
remember the moment--the woman's outstretched pointing,
the smell of the wet reeds, the warmth of her embrace.
There is heat under my wing, and I am no longer
resigned to swim in a dark pond;
I fly south to Madagascar.