The hawk let its wings
Fall open. The light
Fell through the air
And through the lucid
Plumes of the hawk’s
Extended primaries :
A form of it rose up
On a frame of pinions.
The body an avatar of
The light, the light-
Hawk the body’s agent.
It fell as a blue skein
Of smoke falls. Fall,
Aging soir. Its red
Belly burning like stars.
I am a
British poet living in Norwalk, Connecticut. I grew up in rural
Cambridgeshire, and began writing as a student at the University of
London. My work has featured in Petrichor Machine, The MacGuffin,
Psychic Meatloaf, Lines & Stars, Third Wednesday, You Stumble into a
Room Full of Poets, Whisperings, Pacifica, RiverLit, Electric Windmill
and Clinic, with poems soon to appear in Vector Press, the James
Dickey Review, 94 Creations, North Chicago Review and Clarion. My
first chapbook is forthcoming from Mountain Tales Press.
[…] poem of mine about a hawk, written in the spring of 2012, just went online at Danse Macabre. Exciting stuff coming in the next week or […]