Schiehallion Buzzard

Posted by in Poems on Dec 2, 2011



What, other than your right

sustains you over the warm hills

in the angel sphere, tacking loops


like a lazy tailor with a long thread?

Suddenly, with a tilt of wings

you vanish in a clear sky


Shadowless, hiding in light.

But you are there again. The sky fills

With your proud flight, slow as ropes


from a boat, tense and slack on the flood.

If I had a harp with strings

spun from birds’ whiskers, I


might sing your godliness, despite

your ineluctable, measured fall,

mewing out a mouse from its hole.