The Hawk

The Hunting Hawk


Hard eyes in the distance, far beyond the hills,
Flex their sleek wings and plot the kill,
Immune to conscience, unaccursed by care,
The hawk fixes its gaze upon a sun dozing dove.


Then slipping from its throne, with snagging wings,
Flows in sinister silence, feathering the wind,
Death watching, delights in its savage beauty,
As its chilling shadow drifts the distance.


Like lightning it strikes, forcing its talons deep,
Flaying flesh and breaking fragile bones
Mantling its prey, scything through the meat
For the glory of the mighty, is the curse of the meek.


The screaming dove in its final dying distress,
Shrieks to the sky, the darkening sky,
That in wild silence reflects an ancient curse,
The world has borne long before its birth.


No redeeming hand will alter this savage design,
For its meaning was fixed, pagan in time,
The blind god of this world, so cruel in its cage,
Mocks the whimpered mercies of its prey.


Crucified by razor talons upon the killing tree,
Life is torn from its reddening wounds,
As the hawk gorges upon the rented corpse,
White feathers blizzard on a breeze, pale as hail.


Its wings now lay abandoned upon the blooded earth,
Like the banners of army, surrendered,
In defeat to an enemy, that moves ever on,
From kill to kill, unceasing in its holy war.


No tomb will mark its death, nor stone cross,
Arise from the sacred site of its loss,
Nor shall the bleaching bones that remain,
Ever haunt the hawks soul with scarring shame.