The Sparrowhawk

A lightning strike and ground beneath to split,
Eternity to make but seconds broken.
The earth is hard, its inner core the pulse,
But slowing life around it now has spoken.

On buried paths within the darker wood,
The sparrowhawk defends his wilder gaze,
And harder fight the will to not be tamed,
Implicit hope to keep his eye ablaze.

The storm-sky so reflected in his wing,
That neither cloud nor prey can set apart.
Unsharpened beak and mind, a dulling sense,
Uprooting of his still unbeaten heart.

Returning to a favoured roost for rest,
To end the last and laboured final flight,
As talons loose and lose to greater darkness;
The setting for his pass before the night.

And so these truths that never change,
Are warnings of the only time remaining.
A downpour leaves this troubled world in haste,
Bereft of faith and now forever raining.

David Thackwell