How the jesses let down the dove,
not meant for long journeys,
too gentle for such perilous heights.
A battered wing, a broken feather
lay on the ground
for micelings and famboys to gather
for nests and crooked pirates' hats,
for magic wands and whispered wind-wishes
girl-children chant before bed.
A little boy never knows
as he chases the sparrow,
as the first wings of promise beat;
Delilah leaves a sigh
where the starling had lived
as she watches the window
for something to arrive.
You will never know, my love,
the downdrafts I have tumbled;
only the wands and whispers,
the dreams that now linger,
the sensation of your cheek
against the waiting windowpane.
The little boy never knows.