Spirit Of The Eagle Poem by Peter Jones

Once circling poised to stoop
somewhere between the top of the mountain
and the bottom of the sky.
Were there dreams enough to share for free
and not sell them?
That golden hair now flows long again
and I can hear the cheering
known by some other name
and never want to wonder why.

Come down amongst the crowded trees
that do not speak and are safely blind
to trivial affectation, or malevolence.
And shall the meek live with you and touch the wings
of beaten gold; of beaten air.
Experience those of us who care, but are only clay,
and wonder where the singing is.
There is the straw, there is the wheat
and once there was the price to pay.

Dressed now in long remembered loving,
all down the long days of a summer;
you were the innocent; and all-seeing
setting free.
Now the silver vortex spins
you are dissolved in stars
and shining dust.
Drifting in the memory; you made a space.
A small infinity begins:
so shall the unknown legend be.