IV. The Curée (from A Quartet For the Falcon) Poem by Caitriona O'Reilly

The secretive hart turns at bay,
lowers his tines to the hounds' cry.
The sword enters the bull's heart—
still he stands,
amazed on the red sand
as the stony unbeliever might,

who has seen God. Soon now
horns will sound dedow
for the unmaking. Beaters flush
the grey heron
like a coney from its warren,
the peregrine's jet eyes flash.

They go ringing up the air,
each in its separate spiral stair
to the indigo rim of the skies,
then descend
swift as a murderer's hand
with a knife. Death's gesture liquefies

in bringing the priestly heron down.
Her prize, the marrow from a wing-bone
in which she delights, her spurred
fleur-de-lys tongue
stained gold-vermilion—
little angel in her hangman's hood.