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I am a great admirer of English poetry from the time of Chaucer up until the middle of the twentieth century when it appeared to lose its way. I love all aspects of this planet but are sometimes sad when I think of what we are doing to it.

The Captive Eagle

The Captive Eagle

Bright were the skies in which I rode
on winds that in cold torrents flowed.
Close to the sun was my abode.

Dark were the skies that I controlled
save when the lightning’s flames unrolled,
and the fearsome thunder tolled.

But now my world is bounded by bars
and wingless things throw me dead meat.
I who broke the mists beneath my claws
and brooked no rival in the cold skies.

Grandeur was in my sharp-eyed view
Icy cirrus plains or tumbling clouds of rain.
None soared above me in the stormy air
None could meet my imperious gaze.

I matched thunderbolts in righteous rage,
snatched the kid from its grieving dam.
Challenged the sun and mocked the moon
That crawled like sheep in my wind-torn sky.

Narrow this world like an apish womb,
its light to me is a fetid gloom
that haunts a foully smelling tomb.

When can I die – when, oh when?

This straitened world will choke no more,
my spirit will fling wide this door.

and tread the azure steps again.

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