The Hawk in the Storm

I DROWN in the drumming ploughland, I drag up
Heel after heel from the swallowing of the earth’s mouth.
From clay that clutches my each step to the heel
With the habit of the dogged grave, but the hawk
Effortlessly at height hangs his still eye,
Whose wings hold all creation in a weightless quiet,
Steady as a hallucination in the streaming air.
Grasping small breaths, catching last sounds, as the wind
Thumbs my eyes, throws my breath, tackles my heart,
And rain hacks my head to the bone, the hawk
Like a rapt water-walker springs my dream
With its sleeper staring from the eyes
Out of this bloodily grabbed last-moment-counting
Morsel in the earth’s mouth, into the master-
Fulcrum of violence where the hawk hangs still.
That maybe in his own time meets the weather
Coming the wrong way, sees the air, hurled upside down.
Fall from his eye, the ponderous shires crash on him,
The horizon trap him, the round angelic eye,
Smashed, mix his heart’s blood with the mire of the land.