On the falling of Icarus

It is a day, no more.

By the sun those who must, fly.
Ordinary in the order of its suffering.
On earth itself, small mention of miracle.

Someone acclaims the moon
and wolves appear.
A small boy asks of love
and we shrink in size.
Those who can, arrange the folly.

On such a day, thin with disguise,
was the world made.
On the advice of a serpent
was morning taken
from the rib of Eve.

In rare appearances
gods spoke, others listened.
Lumbering the planet
they obeyed. Hobbling by
the mast of their sins.

Civilizations were built,
later destroyed.
A tryst with the scullery maid.
Songs of unrequited love.
By the hand of the beast
did we become man.

Still there is the moon.
Still the sun beats heavily on our brow.
Still we search the horizon for gold.

The small gathering is a victory.
The facts are an armoured division.
The sea vaunts no man.

And though we travel the same road
we are many different conspirators.
The landmarks rise
to our various attentions.
The past leans against the wind.

By this measure
must we begin again.

And only when we look long and hard,
when the sun finally rises
will we see a boy,
a small child
falling calmly out of the sky.