Shrike
Call a harsh ‘chack’; song is a scratchy warble
catching my origins in a thicket of oak.
My passerine tact a mystery to the hawk.
A week in my wingspan is idle flit and hack;
my back’s bitter blood-bolt, the terse use of my beak
to keep my barbed-wire larder of corpses in stock.
No carrion-charmer, no falcon or red kite
I, peregrine, I pious in thought and act
am shriven in my little blood, my butcher’s reek.
In the wrack of my nest, in its bone-scree of voles and shrews
I am called to the questing retch of my home choir,
their eyrie-cry my kyrie eleison.
25 Nov 2006 11:00
| 
Tags: Poetry
| 
Comments (1)
| 
Report a problem
Loading…
i thought this very impressive when i first heard it, and still do, well done sir! the only thing i might suggest is maybe having a re-think about some of the punctuation to facilitate the reading, not a problem when you read it out loud, but i’ve stumbled over a few lines (maybe a comma end of L2? and look at L4). xx
28 Nov 2006, 11:28
Add a comment
You are not allowed to comment on this entry as it has restricted commenting permissions.