Poetry Porch: Poetry


By Paula Bonnell

The roof pigeon next door flew –
        wings clapping - into a tree
(something I’d never before seen it
        do, in all my morning stretches
        on the deck) Then –
Arriving suddenly on the roosting
        corner that the pigeon had left,
pulling its wings in over its back
        with a sullen dignity,
Looking intently over at me, with
        an ancient, fierce face
Thickly beaked - (It must be
        a hawk – )
buff-colored - streaky marks
        in broken lines down its chest
Playing the Bruiser to the
        pigeon’s Small Boy – till -
stepping and turning, it pushed off -
        heading for the tree.

With its cloaky arms spread,
        and its feathered fingers combing
        air, it rose over the tree
and flew south, with the hill dropping away
        beneath it, before veering -
its pale underbody and dark tail
        distinct against a light sky.
Behind it, above it, hectoring toward
        its back came the small form
        of a songbird
as the hawk banked, laboriously
        flapping north.
Exit, pursued by a small bird.

Copyright © 2015 by Paula Bonnell.