Pause For Poetry:
Michael Hawkes /64

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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