Hawk in the Rain

I The air was thick with hawk wings. I went to the cornfield, I was on my knees, On my back, locked into night, Flying dangerously low, Arching in gusts, in silence, Mist embracing my back, Fall rattling toward death. As the swallows climbed, halting. The curlers collided. I heard the drop. The hawk’s stricture. Then the bounds a little further. The gust joined the blood. It thrust— Looming over an empty sky, Braking to fly.

II Then, wheeling, spearing, I thrust The white claws: Bright, parallel rods catching Frost as it went off course, Baby grass, minds dark. Caught in, caught. His claws—the story, claw marks stuck, Wails like a splinter. A sun just a little quick— The hawk emerges from mud, Skim, loop, dart. It bows, knots, sways across Light, wing fluttering before the storm. The catch is The buoy of the sea, committed to sky.

• Ted Hughes