On a walk outside Sowerby Bridge this morning, I came across the hawk in the photograph above, hovering above the hills at the foot of the moors. I thought, gien the time of year, it was a good excuse for posting the poem below, from my collection Dove, Deferred - for which I'm currently seeking a publisher. The poem was originally written seven years ago but has been edited.
Hill's fog-swaddled pinnacle peels
in stony scrub to moorland gorse,
swaying like a sapling
but patient as the onset of winter.
you dream of tucking talons
in millenia of hunger,
and as daylight wickers out
the contours of a dream dissolve,
your wavering flame of dusk-dulled ruby
twists into a svelte,
a swoop through twilight,
swerve, quicksilver tilt,
and then the landing,
stabbing rusting grass
with a fleet, inch-perfect, lethal kiss.