This is my vision of a certain cast of English village (not so much in springtime).

Winter Town

March winds stir listless eddies,

fluke in tired gusts over thin pools,

flare through fields of stubble

then flag, exhausted, sour and wheezing

from the blowing day;

coughing, rubbing arthritic fingers,

cold as a church bell sounds the hours.

Spring will be late this...

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Air Worthiness

The Harris hawk is sleek and fast; fine-boned,

she swoops free from an armoured glove

towards some distant, perfect perch,

only then to see and hear the falconer's call; to search,

then sweep down to the hand that feeds and nurtures.

A hooded hostage; in restless freedom she presents a bleeding dove.

Trimmed hawks hunt in packs on Argentine pampas...

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