The Osprey by Steve Hagget

In foreign land of towering pines

And hammocks, mangrove-torn

A dark-filled night reluctantly

Bequeaths a pale dawn

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Upon one battered cypress perched,

Amidst the morning haze,

Bright eyes stare out from part-cocked head

With piscicultural gaze.

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Intently focussed on the brook,

That glides beneath the tree

Alive to every shadow’s sound

Yet never truly free.

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For choicelessly these eyes are drawn,

As waters break below

And like a flash a head snaps back

And rippled muscles flow.

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Within the slightest moment’s breath,

Two mighty wings released,

Two claws full-stretched, two legs reach out

The sinews, strained, unleashed.

The beaten air the only sound,
As time itself stands still
And, tracer-like, on charted course
The osprey meets its kill.
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With consummate and practiced ease
The painless end begins
The single deadly blow is dealt
As sharpened claws sink in.
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Then up away into the dawn
And time resumes its course
Two final beats – then disappeared
Is this magnetic force.
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The cypress perch and well-filled brook
As silent witness stay
And as they settle – calm again
The sun declares the day.
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