Beatitude (Ah! Bright Wings)

Sad, agnostic soul, I go down to the river
and swim beyond the fence-line, trespassing,
water cold and sweet at the nape of my neck,
every nerve alert, and I watch the martins'
whiplash, loopback flight, their scourge
of insect cumuli, that harried brittle meat.
The sandy bank is riddled with their nests,
each hole a snug of sun-warmed young,
and the long ledge thrums with storeyed wings.

The martins weigh anchor across the sky
as if they're trying to catch down heaven —
and now it seems that heaven is upon us
like some vast and open canvas, love flung down
in the willows' shivering intervals, their bright
and pliant stems falling like green rain;
and I'm carried by the river, numb with cold,
a compass to the currents, briefly healed.

--Fiona Benson