The Food Chain

My mother hung out seeds
for the endangered sparrow...
and whatever eats its chickballs.
Pluckings, in a semi-circle.
Twenty minutes
the musket hawk gripped her
in her kitchen hide, dainty
as Apicius with a dormouse,
unabashed at intestines.
She feasted on his minutiae,
his tail's broad banner-stripes,
five pale spots
on the grey of his uniform,
his hot blush of vermillion.
She waited for her sparrowhawk
to return, but he never did.
Mine was near Llangollen
in the sunset, by that long
diagonal of foothill-rear
blazing with sienna... her
tail fuller, round at the base.
Pigeon's heart, her delectable...
the tall schoolgirl who pounced
on a delicate older boy,
her epicure.

by Richard George

Comments (1)

Lovely and evocative. I've become a fan of your work and eagerly click on your poems when you post them