Aim higher than the clod of mud,
the thud in earth that’s swallowed up,
the belly of a rusted can,
the clang of tin, unbalancing,
snails that cling to low flint walls,
the cracking of a hollow shell,
the plum upon a neighbour’s tree,
a hush disturbed within its leaves,
and higher still than startled crows,
slanted attic windows, rows
of chimney stacks, church spires,
tower blocks. Aim higher.
Set sight between the blazing past
and unlit future of a star.
Copyright: from The Language of Cat and Other Poems (Frances Lincoln, 2011), © Rachel Rooney 2011, used by permission of the author and the publisher
When you are listening to this poem, imagine you are holding a catapult, or a bow and arrow.