Blackbirds Flight Poem by Laurence E. Bourke

The commonplace roof, caked in filthy years worth of grime,
Is surely no place for you, King of the sky!
Three terrific claws anchoring, perched atop the squared
house, an ungainly thing, it has not aged as you.
Warped slates flow from the crooked zenith,
apparently sheltering the dull bricked frame below,
it is nothing special,

What have you got to do with this place?
This stagnant block of talking heads,
walled in, glued to the regal talk-box,
You don’t want to know them,

How definitive your gaze, how clear, Comprehending for fun,
neutral eyes gather the jaded light of the present,
ensphering our gloomy district in a precise image,
Then the feathered span appears, black and layered,
they heave, propelling instinctively, driving the faultless body
through gravity’s unimportance,
you live for it!

Up into the topmost cacophonies, swerving,
leaving our grounded idiocies behind,
to blend with the others, your kind.
A pre-determined aerial assemblage,
Joining the Pulsing sheaths above making their way
Along magnetic lay-lines, a dark flock
bound for our adjacent hemisphere…