Sky-high on his cross of air,
His war cry, a dry clack,
Like an ack-ack gun.
Canyons of cloud above my probing stare,
The tiercel is circling the wood
Like a steel trap, poised to snap.
I am drawn by his lure,
Small tiger of the Heavens,
Hook-beaked spitfire splitting
The creamy silk of a summer's day,
Slitting the wind,
Winged scythe of a lightning fork
His taloned gauntlets
Spear through sheers of cloud,
A break-neck stoop
His guillotine swoop
Swift as a hit-man's kill
In down town world, New York.
Hedgerows are bulldozed.
Cities nest in woods.
Badger, and fox's home's a superstore.
A mortgaged temple of glass and masonry
Suburbs are serving writs through the peat bog door.