Nothing owns the air like this hawk
Before this here kill. He commands the air
Like a sovereign to a subject.
The cloud hunter, outstretched

Feathered fingers holding back rotations.
He waits for the death moment –
No thunderclap, an ominous cloud
Of silhouette congealing above

Carefully hung from the sky,
Blowing in the breeze like washing.
This is his birthright.
He is honed by a million egg-cracks.

A hovering executioner;
A sprawling of God.
Steady as a surgeon’s hand,
Shadowing death like a drone.

He surveys his surroundings,
Readying his eye like a strongman’s muscle,
And prepares to conclude life
And roll away the world in revolutions.

He toys with the perfect kill.
The evening is alive with anticipation.
The heavens breathe in.
Seconds pass like tremors

While he makes us all wait,
Bobbing and brooding
On the sky’s surface like oil –
A black buoy.

He holds my gaze like a prey,
Ricochets against the wind
Like the swing of a hammer,
And then plummets only to make the skyline fall.

This poem recently arose after travelling through France when stood by the car during a petrol pit-stop, I saw a bird of prey (I believe it was a hawk, although I’m not completely sure) seemingly levitating out above a field in the near-distance while hunting. It was quite something: motionless. It could have been hung from the clouds. It was probably quite an ordinary sight, however the image of that bird, stuck on the sky, also stuck with me – following me over the next few days like the predator that it was.

Consequently I tried to capture the suspense in that moment, the tension in that air of sky, the metaphors that lurked within, and the power of that hawk as it controlled the air – it became, unavoidably, my own Hughes ‘Hawk Roosting’.

Enjoy the poetry, and don’t forget to like and follow for more new poetry every Friday.


Another Plane

Do gods watch me soar
Through the sky – a ladder
To be climbed, higher, higher
Relentlessly up and through
The uninterrupted blue,
As I find myself in
Another plane.

Alone in the almost ozone
With only thoughts
And a body, mid-transplant,
Mumbling adopted, magnet sighs.
My passport ironic in my pocket;

The plane-trail propels me onwards
On a slick of cloudy railroad,
And I leave behind uncertainties
And a burst ceiling of clouds
Discarded like clothes on the floor.

And instead, I watch the earth
Flower and roll below:
Alpine mountains like towering mothers,
Clouds clinging like children,
The crumpled paper peaks of earth
Crashing around like a foaming tide.

But this is an aluminium bubble
In a blue, full, pint glass of air,
And the plane continues rising, rising,
Floating up to the top
As though the sky is nothing
More than a liquid morning prayer:

Icarus-like, we continue
Towards the sun.
But there are no myths
In this abyss of modern ages.
The magic is defunct;
Revealed; routine.

Insulated to the awe, the world
Revolving, a hummingbird buzz,
We fly through the epochs of gazed heavens,
Conquering miracles and puncturing the sky

Because we forge divinities ourselves
And now live them momentarily.