Homo Erectus; Through a Glass
Through a Glass
Old glass was spun in circles,
and we’ve fathomed only after centuries
the blower’s thickened edges
blur a blued and pocked window pane;
but Pilkington’s float-glass hasn’t
mystery, just industrial perfection
uniform, mundane. So when I glance
out at new-fledged chicks,
grappling for balance in the creamy
hawthorn hedge, I don’t lose them
through a misted whorl storm
but from a quick prod by time.
Outside, though, in raw blossom scent,
an ancient rite awaits me still,
in the feathery scruffs’
edgy session, of dust ruffles
tail-tips, apprentice trills. This
stolen stretch an endorphin rush
tears up my naked sight—
unmasked tenderness, a nascent
soaring, impatient for flight
Olivia Byard
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