Ken's Poetry

Hawk

At first it seems just
a ragged beating
but there is a rhythm
in wings straining up
and beating down
the air.

All relative markers,
the nearby knoll
the prominent windswept bush
the distant church spire,
keep their exact distances
perfectly.

Nailed to the bleak sky
balanced precariously
on the honed edge
it is this movement
that keeps him
still.