On the Wild Hawk

For you is not the cap of fancy– The soft, the sheer, the somber tones. Rapacious form that deigns to clasp A foothold on the jagged stones.

Brindled priest of precipice An eyrie altar for your prey– Where shadow in a wind-etched niche Resolves the mountainside to grey.

The fire-course in the wild-blown eye On swift wings rides aloft– Obsidian beak on a blood-stained breast Where the white-cream down is soft.

Beside the ice-eye lurks no soul– The bird is soul incarnate, fiercely free– Oh Lord, what heights aspired To keep a raptore company.