Flight of the Bosunbird
Pure light has a plumage.
The communal white feathered body of
The Radiant One
as if, in a dream,
flies backwards into love.
You wear a breastplate of pink satin —
an armour for
the tempest of the heart.
Like your namesake —
you can no longer
hold the horses in the sky.
So — light of all light, like the distant life of
so many small suns — you
Black masked, red billed, of fragile wing
you fall —
plunge diving into the ocean of
The Sacred Always.
Then softly you rise. As if, in a dream.
The released reins are the horizon
This beatific vision —
the red tail streaming above me
is the avian marlin spike
spirit of the Manu
guides the Bosun’s hand —
to the intangible rope
that moors our hearts to the shore.
The cord that binds wing to arm — feather
to hand — eye to eye — cradle to nest — song to breath.
The journey between your soul and mine.
Innocence has an honour to bestow.
A knot to untie.
Just as ari 'i vahine do not walk,
but fly —
so you must land by flying into the wind.
So fall. Ethereal One. Then softly you will rise.
Where we are all free.
As if, in a dream.