Thursday, 9 January 2014


Silent now, though never still,
Buteo Buteo, beautiful,
beside the boring bypass bridge
against the changing sky
wheeling raptor, prompting rapture,
out of some instinctive duty.
Above the scrubby bit of wood,
along the man made ridge
back above the sandy hollow,
rough and holey warren meadow,
you fly;
your wide wings spread
as if you would,
through sheer force of will,
above the alder and the willow
and the Drax clouds' pure white billow,
drive out rabbit, pheasant, hare,
and there above the muddy field,
chocolatey and lying fallow,
at the sudden point of capture,
your cruel talons wield.

Monstrous and dark brown shadow,
ravenous and wheeling raptor,
rapture at your strength and beauty
born of some poetic duty
seems to drive off care.

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