High Flight, by John Gillespie Magee

Oh, I have slipped the surly bonds of earth,

 And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;

 Sunwards I’ve climbed and joined the tumbling mirth

 Of sun-split clouds – and done a thousand things

 You have not dreamed of - wheeled and soared and swung 

 High in the sunlit silence. Hovering there,

 I’ve chased the shouting wind along and flung

 My eager craft through footless halls of air,

 Up, up the long delirious burning blue

 I’ve topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace,

 Where never lark, or even eagle, flew;

 And, while with silent, lifting mind I’ve trod

 The high untrespassed sanctity of space,

 Put out my hand, and touched the face of god.

Slow revelation; by Peter Neary-Chaplin

These days revelation comes slow
seeming less to strike
and more to grow.
The temple curtain is no longer ripped
from top to floor
but unravels and frays
decays a little more
with the accelerating days.

And God
speaks less in strident tone
retreating to the substrate,
perhaps preferring time alone
with the odd centenarian whisper
or low groan,
hiding herself again
from the cooling passion of my hunt;
my meanings were like missile attacks;
her answers, now less storied,
are delegated,
spoken in a pattern of crazed luciferous cracks
revealing just the uncreated glow,
an underground lighthouse
on the wrecking rock
to which the winds of her breath blow.

From my collection My Mother is an Old Elephant available on Amazon here.