Somewhere, Mr Gray, I hope you are living yet, |
vibrant student teacher, soaring high
with a hawk that rose in the sunlit air,
pulling me up in a powerful thermal of beauty,
lifted forever from the withering bitter mist
that rimmed our frontier town, like
the green scum on the pensioned-off canal.
Nearly fifty years have passed
since you hooked a ragged kid at Windsor Hill,
pulled him surely into your rhythmic net,
and left him trembling on an endless bank,
gulping the breath of coldly-crafted passion
that streams from the mountains of poetic minds.
And until now I never offered thanks
for the gift of knowing words could set me free;
yet still I hear the hiss of a hunter's wings
and wonder if you ever noticed me.