Anne Born
The Hawks
Sparrowhawk
sits
hunched on a cliffspike
eyes hooded.
Then soars
prospecting
and swoops
on a young jackdaw,
flies with it
to a grassy diner
top of the cliff.
I hear its cries
strong and loud
surprised
they go on
surprisingly long
before
silence.
It’s summer,
sea and sky
benign, blue.
I’m warm,
bask on rocks
before a swim
in the face
of death.
Clap my hands
and the hawk
flies,
a string of gut
hanging
from its red
beak.
* * * *
Buzzard
dives
into the overgrown garden
beside
the track we walk.
Cries sound again,
this time
piteous, long.
A vole or shrew.
Who would think
so small a life
had such voice?
Not quick enough
endings.
These little deaths
leach
life from me,
I say,
but indulge
in fillet steak
Page(s) 30-31
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