Kestrel

A crucifix hangs on the hill
fighting off the pull of earth
black fingers fumble wind
its yellow eyes fixed on life.

A hurricane beneath each beat
it smashes down on mouse back
a storm that tears squalls of fur
old hunger making new sacrifice.

Jet thunder clouds out of strength
throw down their Pennine waters
light tongues running into ground
nature tasting of dirt & timid blood.

A scattered kill-litter is fly-tipped here,
the body taken home to surgeons children.
Played with,then eaten,the flesh opened up,
the wounds left to bleed,by young tear-aways.

A crucifix hangs on the hill
gliding on the lifts of breath
white whiskers twitching still
on the empty face of death.


John G.Hall(C)2004