Hawk

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

Feathered fingers holding back rotations
As he waits for the guillotine 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,
Honed by a million egg-cracks.

A hovering executioner.
A sprawling of God.
Steady as a surgeon’s hand
And shadowing death like a drone.

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

Now he rehearses the perfect kill.
The evening alive with anticipation.
Heavens breathe in.
Seconds pass like tremors

While he toys with the memory of old murders
Between his toes, bobbing and brooding
On the sky’s surface like oil:
A black buoy.

He holds my gaze like prey,
Ricocheting against the wind
With the swing of a hammer,
And then plummets only to make skylines fall.


This poem recently arose after travelling through France when, 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 on a hunt. It was quite something; motionless, 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 a predatory animal.

Consequently, in this poem 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 like a sovereign would a subject.

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

Luca

Another Plane

Do gods watch me soar
Through the sky like a ladder
Waiting be climbed; higher, higher
Relentlessly up and through
The uninterrupted blue,
Until 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;
Home-swapped, like a gameshow.

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

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

But like an aluminium bubble
In a blue, full, pint glass of air,
Our 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 –
Even if there are no myths
In an abyss of modern age
And the magic is defunct,
Revealed, routine.

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

Because now, we forge divinities ourselves
And then live them momentarily.