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 —

 

Phaethon

 

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

 

 

 

fall.

 

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 

behind Norfolk.

 

This beatific vision —

 

the red tail streaming above me

is the avian marlin spike

where the 

 

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.