World. ( For Emily Bronte ).

The hawk returns to my hand when I call
And accepts the hood as I slip it over her head
Having no notion of the hangman`s knot,
Nor fear of my intentions.
She has been hunting above the long stone wall
While I stand here on the rocky uplands
Watching the wind shake the autumn grasses.

In late October the moor is cold and haunted,
The voice of Gaia seems to resonate
In a rough primordial language
Through the fissures in the rugged landscape.
Her words lack form or meaning,
But I know that she is mourning
For the pains her children give her.
The savage wounds.
The near annihilation.

There are sinkholes hereabouts
Created by the miners
Shifting tons of coal.
They have torn the depths to threads,
Polluted streams with acid,
Cut deep into the heart of Mother Earth.
I live her fearful anguish. I know it for my own,
My strength, like hers, is waning.
I sometimes feel as fragile as a moth
I once retrieved from the glowing embers
But accidentally crushed between my fingers.

I should not have lingered on this rugged outcrop
To watch the orange sky shade into black
As the sun dipped out of sight.
The tethered hawk fiercely grips my taut wrist.
Her lungs are aching. Her hooded eyes are sore.
Her tongue curled hard and dry.
A raw fog tainted with the stench of diesel
Is seeping slowly through the evening air,
Blotting out a billion wondrous stars.
I long to let my hawk go, take her flight to freedom,
But we are long term prisoners to man`s folly,
Trapped on a crippled planet, and cannot now escape.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
19th. - 24th. October 2014.
30th. June. - 6th. - 7th. - 21st. July 2015.