Hawk in the Rain

I

The hawk’s cry is a thin razor A shriek, frozen in air Like a knife in a skull. It slides through the rain, tracks Down the mental spaces of The hunter’s heart. The field is trembling, waiting. With his dark birdof prey eyes, He listens for the falling Of rats and mice, as they scratch At the earth.

II

This is the heart of the matter: The deep drop of his joy Is in the slaughter. Hunger Hones his instinct, carving Him sharp in a field of other. Through the deafening rains, He flies, a glorious dark Embodiment of the grudge, The rapture that awaits.

• Ted Hughes