Flight

[Brownlie]

It is the lie of birds  that you need wings,
the lie of time that gravity
brings you to the ground, presses
like a pillow against your face; -Pillow suggests ale r p and maybe death.
soft, unbreakable.

The clouds of summer call
like cold salt-cream, but wait - good enjambment.
till autumn forms
as long striated runways in the sky,
then climb

higher than the jealous, root-bound - Maybe get rid of jealous here.
trees can stretch their branches,
hooked and bare like knuckled grasps.
Go to where the cliffs tower,
where the sea crashes far below and mists
up in a howl of billows, the pale blue
of a loose night shirt.

Link arms and dive
upwards till the sound of surf,
breaking bones on rocks,
dissolves in white-noise static.
Twist through the clouds
in their spectre-gray grave linens l
to where the oxygen is rare
spun candy on your tongue,
cast off earth-heavy thoughts,
close your eyes
and fly.

I like the oxymoron of diving upwards. The word till and the seasonal references also seem to correlate with the idea of time as well. I get at least the hint of suicide from this, but I've been known to be wrong.