Home - Writing - Guest Poetry Mail Hal C F Astell - Site Map

The Buzzard

by Anne Cummin

A call echoes over the lonely Yorkshire moorland
As I walk; a high, wild yet lonely call
Announcing the presence of the ruler of this land
To all those who would challenge his right to be here.

As I walk, I search the high blue vault of the sky above
To try and find the one who has issued that challenge,
Laid down his gauntlet to all comers,
And yet has no thought of defeat.

Finally, high above, I see a small brown speck,
Riding the air currents as easily as you or I
Take the twists and turns of the footpath across the moors.
Effortlessly, majestically, he surveys his domain
From his throne of the air,

Looking down with sublime disdain on those creatures
Who can only crawl over the surface of the land,
As if along the bottom of a sea, upon whose surface
He floats with absolute mastery of the element.

I watch, and as the cry comes again, I am humbled.
Again the cry sounds, and yet again, and there is still
No response to his challenge.

As I watch, my heart is welled
With the intensity of my feelings
As I see this bird returning once more
To the traditional lands
Where his ancestors ruled supreme.

As I turn to make my solitary way
Back to the life I have so briefly left,
I hear again that call,
Still challenging, still unchallenged,
And I take the memory of that wild and
Effortless mastery of the air
Back with me to my home.


Home - Writing - Guest Poetry Mail Hal C F Astell - Site Map