Poetry

A drowning hawk

With one cut of a tapered pair of wings

The air breaks into above and below.

Two sheets of moisture and vapour.

The yellow eye never rests.

It darts between the reeds,

Combs the withered blades into sheaves.

Geometry – a secret weapon.

The marshland below breaks into triangles

And squares that move and rustle.

To the left. To the right.  False alarms. 

Wings gather air, then tumble down.

The reeds are silent.

They stifle the mournful screech of lesser birdkind.

The water opens its cold sucking mouth –

Feathers feel lighter than in the air, less taut,

Wings can spread far and wide.

There is no time for struggle; there is only water – cold and wet,

Like a ripe raincloud.

Maria Kardel