BUZZARD: First published in Poems in the Waiting Room http://www.poemsinthewaitingroom.org/
Driving home from Gregynog in the month
of many yellows, water bubbling-black
through tarmac to skirt daffodils ─ some not
yet ready, their heads wrapped in brown tissue ─
when suddenly a bird swept the windscreen.
Dusted by afternoon light, it swooped down,
so close I might have touched its pale belly
and black-tipped wings before it soared upwards,
skating sky-figures of eight to music
I could not hear; diving heaped fields for prey
I could not see; vanishing, returning,
then exiting at last on secret cue,
leaving me behind to squint at the sun
cracking through ranks of migraine-blackened cloud.