A Morning Contrail
A poem by Michael Hawkes
I saw the silver bullet
With its contrail spewed behind.
The two white lines converging
Marked the straight path that it flew,
And far below a band of cloud,
Amorphous, almost parallel
In an infinity of blue.
Ah! There goes man, above his gods,
And I compared the two.
But then the controlled line dispersed
And buckled in the atmosphere
And soon appeared to be a cloud,
Confirming what I thought I knew.
Tho’ man may soar above his gods,
That gods abode in man is true,
And straight or crooked tho’ the trail
It is but residue.
11/09/22 – Hawkes
Feature image: Enrique, Pexels
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[/col][col size=”10″]Michael Hawkes is a survivor of all the world’s wars. He learned (and loved to rhyme) by torturing the hymns he had to sing at school. A retired West Coast fisherman living in Montreal since 2013, he is an unschooled Grandpa Moses writing an average of five poems every week.
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