Learning to Fly

You stand at the edge of the cliff, 
arms spread, 
feeling the wind off the Irish Sea, 
powerful and cool, 
a contrast the the late summer sun
still warm on your skin. 

The tide is high, 
and the water is quiet, 
lapping the edge of the stone walls, 
soft and gentle, soothing
to the newcomer. 

But you are no newcomer. 
You have stood here before
in the early morning
as the sea receded, showing it’s teeth, 
ugly, angry stones, 
sharp and angular,
not yet soft from millions of years
of the sea’s caress. 
Deadly things, awaiting their prey, now
just under the placid surface. 

You stand at the edge of the cliff, 
arms spread, 
eyes firmly on the horizon, 
aware of your particular madness, 
your determination to fly, 
to defy gravity, 
your body bearing the scars
of past leaps of faith.

Your heart pounds. 
You shut your eyes
and smell the salty air.

You will not leap. 
not today. 
But the day will come
soon
and you will fly. 

You are sure of it. 

About this poem

My father likes to tell the story of me learning to ride a bike. Evidently I was not a natural. I fell and fell and fell again. He actually began to become concerned as the day went on and I accumulated bruises and cuts from the falls. But I was determined to learn and would not stop, no matter how torn up my six year old body became. And in the end, I got it. 

I don’t remember the beating I took that day. But I do remember the freedom and joy of riding my bike, which stays with me to this day when I ride. 

I am still a little that way, willing to fail, and fail and fail again until I reach something I think is important. I get beat up a lot. I lose a lot. But I gain something too. I eventually get there. 

I do think sometimes that it’s not the wisest thing, this persistence. That it is a kind of madness. But I seem to be stuck with it. At least it leaves me with lots of stories. And a poem here and there. 

The picture was taken at Tintagle, England. Next perhaps to Venice and Vermont, it is my favorite place on earth. 

Tom