‘Taking Flight’ by David Watt

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The relentless rain sought to admonish those creatures who dared venture out.
The wind carried a sorrowful message, determined to generate doubt.
A less desperate man would have faltered on reaching that clifftop rim,
But the resolute prisoner kept standing—
Against Nature and instinct, still standing—
He remained there, surprisingly steady, though frozen from limb to limb.

His clothing was coarse as flour sacking, and chains lay between his bare feet,
Cruelly limiting every footstep to a shuffling, metallic beat;
And a hunger tormented his belly with cravings he’d never known,
And the dismal landscape behind him—
The unchanging landscape behind him
Gave rise to a chill isolation that fugitives feel to the bone.

Breaking out had been frightfully easy compared to the trials he endured
Navigating his way through marshes, infested, and depth obscured;
And the leeches he gained as companions from treacherous, stinking bogs
Stigmatized him as if by branding—
A most visible scarlet branding—
For those bloodletters bit him a branding befitting unfettered dogs.

He regarded the ocean below, and perceived a perverse relief:
One last leap to a break-and-enter seemed appropriate for a thief.
And although his poor bones would be broken to splinters against the rocks,
He would drift as the free may wander
(Though not as the living may wander)
To wherever the tides may determine, away from the curse of locks.

In regard to his battered spirit: released it would doubtless fly
Far across the dividing ocean, winding back through the boundless sky;
And upon having reached his homeland, emerald green as the swelling surf,
There at last he would see his sweetheart—
His long-suffering, lonely sweetheart,
With the locks of her hair leeward flowing, home carrying blocks of turf.

With a look on his face borne of gladness; a mien too long unknown,
Never fearing or hesitating, he dropped from the cliff like a stone.
The spray-laden air whistling past him produced a delightful tune,
A once in a lifetime diversion—
A God given, perfect diversion,
High and sweet as the harps of Heaven—a melody played out too soon.

Mounted troopers arrived in the morning, fast pulling their steeds to a stop,
Unashamedly disappointed that their quarry had taken a drop.
There would be no excitement of capture, nor rapid descent of whips
Raining down far too often to measure—
When pleasure from pain knew no measure
And the sounds of maniacal laughter rang out through malevolent lips.

“May his soul burn in Hell!” they exclaimed. “That’s where all common scoundrels go!”
But just who were these troopers to judge him? And how could they possibly know?
I prefer to believe that he reached her, this spirit, from earthly cares free,
Now chainless, and frequently smiling—
He most certainly would be smiling
To abide with his true love forever—this high-flying escapee.

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David Watt is a writer from Canberra, the “Bush Capital” of Australia. He has contributed regularly to Collections of Poetry and Prose by Robin Barratt. When not working for IP (Intellectual Property) Australia, he finds time to appreciate the intrinsic beauty of traditional rhyming poetry.