Tuesday, 1 April 2014

Buzzard on Bothen Hill

Sitting on the edge of an old tractor tyre,
I pushed my gaze through strands of barbed wire,
Until I saw you, perched high in a tree
Above a patchwork of fields spread greenly,
Imperiously poised in your throne-pine
As if to say “All this is mine...”
Then with fanned out feathers you drop and glide
Effortlessly soaring with wings held wide,
Tilted head and glinting eye;
Lord over the land, sovereign in the sky.

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