#52weeksofnaturepoetry, Poetry

#52weeksofnaturepoetry Week 24 – Sky Dancer

The poem below is part of a project I’m doing to raise money for the RSPB, a UK wildlife conservation and protection charity. Being autistic, nature is often my only place of solace, and I want to do all I can to protect it. As I’m not very comfortable around other people, most of the standard ways of helping out (volunteering, ‘traditional’ fundraisers etc.) were not a good fit for me, so I came up with #52weeksofnaturepoetry, where I have to post a nature poem here on this blog each week for an entire year without fail.

If you’d like to help, please share this poem to encourage others to take joy in nature, and if you have the time and means to donate, you can do so here. Let’s help keep our wildlife wild!

Sky Dancer

Snagging the updraft, she glides high.

No fuss, no theatrics.

Just drive.

Her next meal awaits below, somewhere unseen for the moment.

Not for long.

With due perspective, she’ll pinpoint her catch.

In a quiet spot, she might be able to leap from perch

to extract a tasty morsel,

yet close to ground, disturbances always threaten.          

Other predators, rowdy humans, her own hunters –

the ones who claim she kills their game

as if she is playing as they do

rather than being fuelled by pure survival instinct.

When she rides the air, deep eyes alive,

everything becomes clear.

Nothing can hide.

She’s looking for her main course,

no mere snack this time.

Her mate circles close, nothing yet for him.

His luck is his own.

Her skills deliver: mottled brown fur, a speck to our eyes.

A prize for her.

Talons poised, she bullet-dives.

Faster than an arrow meeting its target, near soundless

and every bit as deadly.

For her prey, that is.

Snatched in a blink, life extinguished by her grip

and several nips from her beak.

Devoured quickly.

Precious energy not easily gained.

Poetry

The knife in the dark

Soft. I hear the toes spread, carpet fibres fill the spaces.

Weight gently shifted, one step as even as the next.

The air ripples along to where I am. The scent of blood, or is it merely iron?

My legs want to bolt, give away my position. I cannot let them.

Else the sharp will find the soft, and not even the dark can stop it.

Poetry

Remnants

Most of them were now bones, picked white by crows,

only a lock or two of hair would tell.

 

No motion at all could convince the trapeze, swinging ever higher,

that it was nearing the zenith of its arc.

But the hunter with silver fur and hungry eyes lay ready,

the full moon its guide.

 

He would have bluebells waiting by the thousand,

painted clay cups that collected his luminescent tears,

frozen and pressed into precious stone –

hoping to replace the ammonite clasped in her hand.

 

He could grant wishes for her, bend himself to her will,

but always in a way that would cause havoc.

Outshining the fire,

a delicate flower began to bloom.