A perfect day, the brightest morn,
Sun kissing leaf and tree;
A bird afar seems all forlorn
What can the matter be?
Then a movement on the grass
Brings home the reason why;
A Sparrowhawk has made its pass
And a meal has had to die.
A cruel beak; fierce callous eye,
Surveying all around;
Whilst rending flesh and feather
Upon the frosty ground.
That look of arrogance and power
To fascinate and chill;
Where’er the place, when’er the hour,
She dominates to kill.
The yellow roundrel of her eye
Spots me in my stance;
I read the thought; to eat or fly
Daring me to advance.
Hesitation shows for just a blip.
Returning to flesh and bone;
Talons hold fast for beak to rip
Only feathers remain alone.
The deed is done a need fulfilled
She rises to a tree;
A type of love for what she killed,
Sustains; as others flee.
Monty Alexander 4.1.03