A Morning Contrail
A poem by Michael Hawkes
I saw the silver bullet
With its contrail spewed behind.
The two white lines converging
Marked the straight path that it flew,
And far below a band of cloud,
Amorphous, almost parallel
In an infinity of blue.
Ah! There goes man, above his gods,
And I compared the two.
But then the controlled line dispersed
And buckled in the atmosphere
And soon appeared to be a cloud,
Confirming what I thought I knew.
Tho’ man may soar above his gods,
That gods abode in man is true,
And straight or crooked tho’ the trail
It is but residue.
11/09/22 – Hawkes
Feature image: Enrique, Pexels
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[/col][col size=”10″]Michael Hawkes was a cherished poet and contributor whose work enriched the pages of WestmountMag.ca with its sensitivity and depth. Over the years, he entrusted us with a rich body of poems, of which only a portion has yet been published. His passing leaves a profound void, but the poems still to come will continue inspire all who were moved by his voice.[/col][/row]