Margaret always suspected she had wings
tucked up tight under her skin,
Secret and hidden as a sin.
She seemed to remember that
Once upon a childhood they had begun to bud,
But before they could unfurl
An ill-timed word had withered them
And she had pulled them in.
But then, at thirty-six, she felt an itch
Right there between the shoulder blades
Where it’s so hard to reach.
She tried all sorts to make it stop –
Rubbed up against a trees rough bark,
Took long hot showers in the dark
When no one else could see,
Even went to her GP who said
"There’s nothing wrong that can’t be solved
With sympathy and tea".
By forty-nine she could no longer wear a backless dress –
The stress of keeping mum was almost more
Than she could bear and yet
She kept her cool – even when
Her wings were peeping through
Like little feathered nubs that fluttered when she laughed.
At fifty they were harder to hide –
No longer folded safe inside
They made her blouses bulge
Unless she bound them tight against her back.
And even then they did not rest,
But pulsed with blood and life.
At fifty-three she knew the jig was up:
No way to cover the reality
As Margaret’s true identity
Burst through the bandages,
The shirt, the suit. Hers were not
The cute and tiny wings of cherubim
But a mighty eagle’s span,
Full of power and shining
In the golden morning sun.
The cliffs were high and far below
The rocks that beckoned seemed to know
Her fear of falling.
And even though she heard them calling
That the price of freedom was too high,
Freed from their bounds, her wings beat now
Until she felt the ground no longer
Gripped her feet; and that was when
She held fast her faith, took a running leap
And flew.
Comentários