Peregrine Falcon Poem by Gillian Clarke
Peregrine Falcon
New blood in the killing-ground,
her scullery,
her boneyard.
I touch the raw wire
of vertigo
feet from the edge.
Her house is air. She comes downstairs
on a turn of wind.
This is her table.
She is arrow.
At two miles a minute
the pigeon bursts like a city.
While we turned our backs
she wasted nothing
but a rose-ringed foot
still warm.
Thursday, February 1, 2018
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4/26/2024 10:53:44 PM # 1.0.0.1119
Kind of like these poem even if I don’t fully understand it