I miss the Darkness of her Light
Posted on October 30, 2009
(About my passionate love of flying, and the way the weather changes suddenly and dramatically for the worse, and can trap an unwary pilot, even kill him. But it’s also a frustrated metaphor of sorts, for when I ache to read and write and quietly explore my simple, naive thinking, when I ache to ‘pull pitch’ and fly the hell away from superficiality, judgmentalism, stereotype and smothering convention, but find myself grounded, trapped, bewildered, unable to reach those skies, shackled by some dead weight.
Part of which, I admit, is fear, drawn from my experiences of being mocked and ridiculed by others .
What makes a man? A real man? A good writer? A good pilot? He who is tough and hard? Resilient and self reliant?
Never shows or experiences weakness, uncertainty or sensitivity?
Ah…. the durability of plastic…)
a mournful, cold and lonely day
low scudding clouds and stinging rain
now cause the creatures of the air
with fretful caution to refrain
from venturing beyond their lair.
When birds are resting wearily
when clouds are drooping drearily
when gusts of cold pierce shriekingly
when foot steps hurry seekingly
what madness makes me want so much
to feel the quiver of her touch?
I miss my Dreaming through her Skies
I miss the Halls of streaming White
I miss the Darkness of her Light
I miss her Soft and whispered Sighs
and all because I never grew
beyond the simple child I knew.
A friend is one who never strays
a friend is one whose well known ways
are warming as a gentle word
so kindly said and often heard
and never meant to hurt or harm,
my resting hand upon their arm.
But she, my Mistress in the Sky
deceptively delights to lie
at times she changes on a whim
maternal kind to gallows grim
a strange betrayal of a sort
without the least remorseful thought.
She’s not a friend who never turns
but is a fire that ever burns
she’s not a refuge free and clear
but is a course I always steer
She’s not that hand upon my sleeve
but is a calling I believe.
She looks at me with deep blue skies
and traps me with her probing eyes
I live to soar alone and free
and yet I follow timidly
because I struggle with a weight
the knowledge of this scribbler’s fate.
My sight is dim, my senses frail
my pen is faint, my colors pale,
and yet I ache to climb so high
and if, dear friend, you wonder why…
it’s all because I never grew
beyond that dreaming child I knew.
Francis Meyrick
Last edited by Francis Meyrick on March 19, 2014, 10:35 am
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Loading…One response to “I miss the Darkness of her Light”
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What can I say?
I have never flown.
I do not know why.
I guess there never was any need for me to fly.
Yet, I have always lived with helicopters and light planes nearby.
I like looking at helicopters, I have never known otherwise. They have grown on me.
For 44 years I lived in the vicinity of a ‘gendarmerie’s’ helicopter base.
Then I moved to an 100 year old house, built on what once was army territory, a white dot on Google Earth at the time we bought it. The former tenant warned me against helicopters… I laughed at him, because I had never known otherwise.
Now, 2 years later, I am happy when I lie in my garden, looking at the sky, watching helicopters and light planes hovering above and sometimes waving to them. The airfield is no longer military. It is still there and I hope it will always be there.
This is the ‘tower’ http://www.panoramio.com/photo/55581610
I get the darkness of her light. At times I wonder what would happen if one of the helicopters or light planes would come tumbling down. Luckily they never have. Reading your poem makes me even more aware that they can.
Your poem reads like it was written by a compulsive flyer. You are drawn to flying. You have to fly It is extremely well balanced like Yin and Yang. It also reminds me of the old Greek duality of Eros and Thanatos …
It reads like a dream.
I want to read it over and over again.
Maybe it is a good idea to read it when I am watching helicopters…