Vanishing Point

I stood motionless on a green-hedged hillside

Near Tetford, deep within the Wolds

That crease and fold old Lincolnshire lands

Where pheasant that escape the hunt call

Each to each.

 

Here, over the bluestone that runs the top

Flew a black-winged kite, swooping high

Across the scarp to hover like an angel at ease,

Its eyes rapidly scanning the ground on blue air

Blustering, white head perfectly still,

 

Until, finding no prey, to climb and dive

And slide, flight feathers twitching to settle

Once more, its great wings greeting

Off-guard field mice and vole, silently.

 

At my feet ran a stream that trickled

Clear and cold from its spring, but

The great kite had reached its vanishing point,

And was gone for new fields of plenty.

I took the hint and walked back to the car.

 

Chris Hubbard

2020