NaPoWriMo #14: Sparrowhawk

A silhouette
amorphous,

from a distance
resembles its prey.

In the branches
a silent jet fighter,

songbirds beware
of lethal eyes

and the talons
which follow them.

NaPoWriMo #26: Watchmen of Mull

Continuing the animal theme for the last few days of NaPoWriMo, I give you a poem centering on birds which went extinct in Britain more than a century ago, but were successfully reintroduced on islands such as Mull in the Inner Hebrides.

Watchmen of Mull

They sat on the clifftops
surveying the Firth of Lorn
in the days when the raptors
ruled the skies above the isles.

The sea eagles fished alongside
the humans on their vessels.
Myths of their viciousness
spread across the isles like rot,

and so did the hunters and trappers.
They purged the land for miles
of the kings and queens of the air,
until their sympathetic descendants

facilitated the eagles' restoration
to their old thrones on the cliffs.
Now the eagles soar over Mull,
snatching fish from the bay,

following their fishermen friends,
raising chicks in the old pines
and watching over their kingdom
should the old threats rear their heads.

Untouchables

Vultures huddle in their roosts
inside the Mehrangarh Fort,
resting in the barracks
of the maharajah's army.
The fort casts its shadow
over the streets and the dunes beyond.

Vultures gaze at the seething chaos below.
Cast out from the city, ruling
the fort is their reward.
They frown at vegetarian scruples
when there is so much meat on the streets.
One spots something on the city's edge.

King vultures lead the rest
as they take off,
circling figures in the sand.
One is a cow, freshly dead;
the other is a man, a chamar.

They form an aerial wake
as the man removes the biggest
obstacle to their feast.
The man leaves with a
drum skin as the vultures
drop out of the sky and gorge
upon the reeking corpse.

Beaks tear muscle and flesh,
until the rag-and-bone birds of the desert
fly back to their fort
before the sun disappears.

Throne of the Ospreys

An old conifer, gnarled and weathered,
crowned by a nest and two chicks,
striped, hook-beaked, featherless wings
like a half cooked Christmas lunch.

Their throne is webbed by wires,
charging electric crackles
bestowed by nervous birdwatchers
fearful for their new charges.

Around the trunk, indistinguishable
from the bushes it infests,
a wreath of wartime barbed wire
spilled into the undergrowth

as a warning and defence,
the work of a self-appointed
royal guard, dedicated and alert,
the natural enemies of egg thieves.

(Hi guys. So that's the poem for this weekend. Stay tuned to this blog for my verdict on the series finale of Sherlock, coming soon.)