Edgelands

A poem by Tim Thorp.

Enigma of smells - the dense, fecund,
Heavy scent of haw-flowers infolding
With high, sweet, rotten cow-manure,
And the rancid carcasses of brassicas. 

Edgeland: half-neglected. Stronghold of
Thistle clump and horsetail: marginalia.
A stony, ragwort-ridden scrub of once-
Ploughed fields: shelter for ground birds.
An in-between land, where untamed wild
Meets the lease-hold on our managed,
Delectably manicured, sense of order.

       A small part of the endless sky darkens. 

Buteo, Buteo: Raptor. Supreme aviator - 
Aloft, and on his daily round:
He's a part time refuse collector -
His patch covers several parishes -
Busy guy: the World has turned wasteful.
And then there is always the kill.
Clod and stubble seem to parody his
Mottled-brown underwings. 
His easy glide
Fathers a refrain, soft, soft:
A whispering adagietto  of wind and air, 
Through feather, beak and talon -
Like breath drawn, sotto, sotto,
Pianissimo, soft, soft, soft.

But then, a sudden blare -A touch discordant and
Fortissimo
(In comparison to what has gone before).
A cat like mew -glissando -
Resounds across the land,
Buteo, Buteo.

Alarum below.
Life shudders anew,
The tedious mundanity of fear -
The ever present metric of terror -
Ratchets up to critical.

It starts in the eye - flicker on retina,
Optic nerve to cortex,
Transmission:
Rigid from eye to talon
Feathers retract.Irises widen. 

As door-sized wings fold
Into the stoop
Bird becomes ball,
Or comet hurtling groundwards.
 
Strike alert ! - who will it be?
Shake, cower. No, no - run.
Stand still, stiffen. Rigor vitae.
No. No. A young hare freezes in terror.
Terra infirma. Rigor vitae.
Talons trailing blood over Edgelands.
Buteo, Buteo. Buzzard: aerial Knight of 
The Ancient Order of Accipitriformes;  
Lord of the In-between.

Tim Thorp.