Hawk In The Air Poem by Michael Maxwell Steer

A high wide arc the buzzard made
above the down, swooping & turning
ceaselessly, its wings outsplayed
as if in melancholy yearning.

It did not seem to search for prey
altho the earth was hard, nor call
a mate but slowly wheeled this way
and that, as if to pause might stall.

A lazy sun could not disperse
the cloud, which formed a mighty cloak
wherein the bird would sometimes dress
or shrug off with a single wing-stroke.

I watched as long as I had time
yet never saw it deviate,
its circling like some endless rhyme
that tied it to its airborne fate.

This made me see I could no more
understand its motivation
than it could mine. Was what I saw
a response to sadness or elation?


26/2/13
Set to music for cappella chorus