For The Wings Of A Bat
O, for the wings, for the wings of a bat.
At least then I’d know
I was not a dog or a cat,
and I could flit into a belfry,
and be quite friendly with the owl,
who sits sentry among the ivy,
and observes rodents with a scowl,
and I could glide the churchyard wide,
take pride in flying blindly after fleas,
then hang greyly brown upside down
from a branch forked out from spindly trees.
O, for the wings, for the wings of a bat,
not of a dove, no,
but of that I am hinting at,
then I could flap far from any trap,
well known about but safely unseen,
be brittle hard as rusty scrap,
dark as midnight moon and mammal spleen,
and haunt the air of folktale lore,
switch into the charms of a pagan witch,
instead I am a human tramp,
my bed but a brambly, dry bone ditch.