Talon and Beak
To be able to fly is our dream.
But think of being a killer on the wing.
Few do, for we soar and glide in our minds,
not stoop, stalk and pounce.
Once, working on a car on a hot day,
I lay on the grass and gazed skyward
five hundred feet, where a family of buzzards,
nine of them, rode thermals effortlessly.
Adults screeched shrilly to trainee
young, wheeling blueness
in a vortex spiral of joy.
No wing-flaps intruded.
Flattened, as prey might be,
I watched them survey
their hunting-ground.
Telescope-vision pinned me.
My puny eyes saw something fall.
Not a diving buzzard,
but a dead rabbit, dropped
by the mother to her son below.
Wheeling in triumph, he dipped
and let go, the rabbit
falling fifty feet to the talons
of his sister inverted to catch.
That farm valley sky
was scored by sharp wings.
Migrant killers scythed,
pursuing crescent swallows.
A hobby, so fast and agile
it can take dragonflies,
blurred sickle wings
through heat-haze.
A flight of swallows
jinked, fracturing a pattern
that the hobby darted
honed sharpness through.
No game this, though swallows
seem joyful at all they do—
they tanked grass-high,
seeking sheep as shelter.
Acrobatic and alert prey birds
were harder hunting than sparrows,
who dust-bathed in the gravel
of the lane ahead of my car.
Slowing to allow their escape,
a winged grey bolt scudded
across my windscreen
from over my car's roof.
The sparrow-hawk sunk talon
into sparrow back, not landing,
this missile of death
sped on, as I cried out in wonder.
The hawk shadowed my car
as cover, stalking the bathers.
Would I have seen it in my mirror,
if I'd looked? A barred killer in flight.
Its sparrow victim scarce slowed
the hawk's rapier flight
as she pierced a gap
in a tangled spinney ahead.
The scarlet on raptor's weapons
is seldom observed.
Though piles of plucked feathers
are proof of talon and beak.
In The Graveyard At Dawn
A green lad out walking his black dog,
through potato-rotten fields
in the half-light of dawn,
enters the graveyard
of his local flinty church
through the back gate.
The farm track continuing
over hurdles of beech tree roots
that lance into baby graves,
tiny markers tilting—the boy
hadn't known that infants died
until his father told him so.
Nervously scanning the shadows
of a yew-shaded corner
for a grief-crazed elder
who lies out on his wife's grave,
praying to join her
by exposure and osmosis.
The boy sees no raincoat shroud,
and turns down the sandy path
to the church, his dog,
his best friend,
spiritual reinforcement.
A barn owl kewicks
dissent at light's approach,
as it ghosts away.
Rain-sodden grass,
from overnight storms,
shows ski-drag tracks
of feeding rabbits,
which the boy hopes
his dog doesn't see.
An empty grave beckons,
right by the path,
a place long-occupied
by Civil War dead.
So, not empty then,
it's soil-tanned
warrior's bones lay
among rotted coffin shards.
Hard to tell which is which,
as boy and dog gaze down,
taking care to stay away
from a rain-weakened edge.
A deluge shaft to history
that neither reveals
or shelters any more.
Mist burning off grave-grass,
the boy rattles a church-door,
locked tight against evil.
Vicar roused from sleep,
tousle-headed, gazing down
from bedroom window,
blinks owl-eyes towards graveyard
as he hears the boy's tale.
“Overtime for the grave-digger”,
he mutters, carping at new demands
from a long-dead guest,
as he aims a blessing
at the departing boy,
who journeys into bright light
down Rectory Lane.
Tampa Town Bear
They caught a huge Black Bear
in Florida recently.
Darted him in a public park,
620lbs of chunkified bruin
scrounging through bins.
The second largest Black Bear
recorded in Florida,
but only by four pounds,
which had me wonder
how heavy bear turds are....
The record-holder was squashed
by a car, which is sad,
and can't have done the car much good.
But the bin-bear was saved,
measured, maybe groomed a bit,
and taken to a wild area
near some trees and swamp,
miles from rubbish-skips, shops,
tourists and fast-food.
Released from a cage,
he lumbered towards
a camera set on the trail.
Will he know what wild food is?
Chipmunks, squirrels, fish,
roots and berries?
Or will he have hunger pangs
for McDonalds, Coke
and French-fries?
That obese bear
isn't a fine specimen.
More a junk-food addict.
Bet he bellies back to the dumpsters....
Perch is Good
Leaning against rusty cage bars
Contemplating the fallen seed.
So much waste for only brief joy.
Pecking, rearranging sparse plumage,
Feathers dulled now, a cooler covering.
Draughts chill these days.
Mirrors are avoided,
Boxed at with weak ire.
Nobody rings my bell.
Days in the sun warms
Half-remembered songs,
From chipped brittle beak.
Though undercover quietness
Soothes peaceful sleep.
Chirruping quietly now,
Once I fluidly squawked.
No one to hear my call now,
I grip my perch with hooked
Claws, shuffling sideways into
Time, thinking how I flew
Through life in flurries
Of colour and confidence.
Not knowing my resting-place
Would become m
y dying-place,
I take what's good
And hold on.
The Old Skylark
Earth beckons enticingly.
The soil soft refuge
From the tearing sky.
Sharp zephyrs scrape
Vents in his flanks,
Winnowing flesh.
Once he performed,
Scratching sky, trembling
Notes through air.
Hooking breezes
To scale aloft,
Pursuing his song.
Trampolining down
descant chords
to soft coda.
Tumbling, grounded.
Territorial proclamation
Adrift on the wind.
A swift run to nest
Through furrows
’Twixt crops.
Where he now sits
Alone and afraid,
His wings sheathed.
All power wanes.
His, now memory
Of soaring.
Forever encompassed.
Earth brown replaces
Sky blue.
The Old Road
Different colours now.
A changed texture.
Visitors stay longer.
Smelling fresher too.
Greenness coats black.
Moss, fungi, lichens,
Yellow types as well,
Bayoneted by grass.
Pecked asphalt crumbs,
Dislodged, unused lay.
No continual polishing,
The surface puckers, cracks.
Wildlife hops, scampers.
Sunbathes on hot tarmac.
Birds navigate air-space,
Free of speedy metal boxes.
Blossom dapples chipping.
Hedgerows kiss above.
A green corridor shimmers
With pollen, seed and scent.
Onion Skins
Difficult to remove.
Awkward to handle.
Irritatingly clingy.
Peeling away in shards.
Sticking as if glued.
Why so protective?
I know people like this.
Evasive, defending
their inner thoughts.
Hanging around
for no good reason.
Making people cry.
Kissing-Gate
Hinges oiled regularly,
It's a well-loved portal.
Rusted brackets cling
To hand-glazed oak.
The gate swings freely.
Pausing, always pausing.
For there's no other way
Through it's narrow clasp.
Soft laughter breaths,
Pull questing lips
Together, tender
Moues glancing.
Passing through
A benign barrier.
Proof of love,
A brief joy.
Kissing gate
Swings freely.
Welcomes all,
The password is love.