It was not in the clouds
I learnt how to fly.
But between jagged twigs,
I flapped and stumbled.

In a warm nest,
I dreamt of battling polar winds.
In furry layers,
I prayed for hardened wings.

All I see is up.
I climb and soar,

It is not the sky
that tells direction.
But the dirt and rocks below,
stubborn and unchanging.

It is not stars I reach for
as I near them in flight,
but for the juicy sweat decay
at the foot of a tree.

I fight the binds of earth.
I reach for freedom,

If I fly only on mountain tops,
I would touch every peak of polished grey.
But I would forget
how daffodils vary in yellows.

A special loneliness
awaits above the clouds,
a white splendour
over the meaningful imperfections.

If I could fly forever…
I fall,

The fine, delicate quill
decorates not a majestic being,
but a lump of fluff,
lying in the way of someone’s hundred-k journey.

A piece of prodigal sky,
returning to earth.


Amy Huang
Year 12
Rangi Ruru College, Auckland