The sun was at its summer height
When he rose in soaring flight
His wings beating with all their might
Golden waxed in the golden light.
Under Heaven he unfurled
Like an unravelled bird
While the waxing heat spurred
Through the air like a golden sword

His ambitious dream.

Down below the falling world
Rivers around hillsides curled
Swathes of green grass swirled
In waves upon the rich-purled
Copse and crown of tree
Now a distant vague history
Hardly even a memory
Of countryside he could barely see

Pinned to green ground by some solid factory.

The only sound he could hear
High in the stratosphere
Celestial music to his ear
Was women’s voices, clear
Voices that were so fleet
Musical and sweet
Voices with song replete
Recalling with each splintered beat

The glittering destiny of sunlight.

He remembered them all
Voices so beautiful
Each one a Siren’s call
Urging him to fall (and fall!).
But to earth he dared not return
Burned by the sun
His gage not won
His dream undone

As the wax melts from his broken wings.

He has fallen now from the Sun
But the voices of the women
Bright and golden
Hold him as he is spun
In air like a spinning, feathered, top
He knows shall never stop
Spinning in this azure drop
Towards where his father lies
And cries
And dies
All his golden visions burned by the golden light.

Now Icarus descending
Loves what the women sing
Their voices golden to him
Are now everything
Life, dream, flight,
And the gilded beauty of his own demise
As he falls, only to rise.