Visiting Peregrine

The sudden swerve and shoot and one shock glimpse
of polished blue slate wingtips. The screaming
call, called my return the following day
better equipped to see the world in focus.

Eager to engage, a robin chirped, hopped
and hopped ahead while I trod mud. Magpies
made their helicopter gunship patrols
spraying chatter. Crows startled, hoarsely croaked
and took off like a gang of blackguard thieves.

A line of trees stands sentinel, rising
to the castle mound, guarding the secrets
of might and despair. Here I take my space
to sweep over open land: shiny grey
metal Calder coiled, glinting reservoir
and up beyond the mist dimmed fields -
nothing.

No swerve or shoot. No wing folded stuka dive.
No roll or stoop.
Just Yorkshire in November,
a thickening bank of cloud, the low sun
and three o’clock darkness folding in.

John Irving Clarke

Poetry Gallery (2)