Immortalised, embalmed, entombed in Ancient Egypt,
a mummified kestrel buried with a vole in his belly -
does the deified bird banquet for eternity
or continue his defiance of motion and gravity?
Alive, in flight, above plough-scarred stubble,
He ripples - a being more fluid than feathers and bone.
Heaven-hovering hunter holding life at his whim,
the earth on a plumb-line, paused in its spin.
He is eyes and wings and claws and beak
unwilding wind with air-mastering technique.
He is the lasting moment, the continuing present.
Under his will, the world waits, breathless and silent.
Another photo taken by Robin.
Both photos by Robin are beautiful, and they catch so much of the nature and characteristics of this bird. And your poem is exquisite and does justice to the kestrel. The opening grabbed my attention, especially the last meal. Love how you go from death in the first verse to life in the second. "plough-scarred stubble, He ripples" is is wonderful word crafting. The last verse is reflective and ends with the waiting silence of the last line. Your rhyme scheme work really well -- including how you vary it in the last verse. Thank you both!