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Peregrine

I was born on this
Cathedral spire - high up
Above the Wensum’s

Slow curve - and on this
Perilous ledge learnt to flap
And tear meat and soon

I will fledge - launch out
Over the City - destined
To soar; and the whole

Of Norfolk will become
My hunting ground: from the Fens
To the Brecks and back

Over the Broads to
The old grey sea; taking from the
Air what I need and

One day you may glimpse
Me against the sun: phantom
And unstoppable

But, then, finally
I will fall and my grey-flecked
Feathers will mingle

At last with the flat-
Faced, low-lying earth.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 

 

 

 

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