The Tiercel

The Tiercel.

Promiscuous upon the winds you pose,
Posturing little tiercel, crowd pleaser,
Impertinent and lascivious Jack,
Kiting upon the void as you kill,
You haunt the lost highways,
Roaming the rivers of petrified tar,
Fanning the sky with your pericon wings,
As flamboyant as in a flamenco,
Fluttering with such indolent ease,
The swooning sun of late September.


Delicate as a seed from a dandelion clock,
As an achene suspended in space,
Your fragile wings of silken pappus,
Flatter the wind with soft caresses,
As a hunter whispers to his victim,
Killer on the road you baile your prey,
As Fráríðr stalks the motorways,
As do all outcasts, all serial killers,
For your presence is the shadow of death,
Fluttering forth upon the evening.


Death hovered over the world, then swooped,
A sudden stoop, swift as a ballista bolt,
Revealing flick knife talons, meat rippers,
And the cruel billhook of your beak,
Each sleek edge slashing as a razor blade,
Cutting away the thin skin of your victims,
Eviscerating their inner tick and tock,
In the savage ecstasy of the extispicy,
Your pale grey executioners hood,
Is fitting for a blood hawk of the red palo.


Most sinister of all seducers, a wind lout,
Crow mobbed for your high graces,
A popinjay papingo, cock of the mast,
You feak and preen upon a telegraph pole,
Whilst from the black cannons of your eyes,
I see the grapeshot of your gaze,
A constant scourge upon the earth,
Your will is every desire in action,
For what you want, you must have,
As must a tidal wave, a wolf or a murderer.








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