After the Fire
Like black, sooty sentinels, in smoky aftermath, tall pines, standing guard upon the glen’s lonely path. The fire, in sparse thickets…
Like black, sooty sentinels, in smoky aftermath,
tall pines, standing guard upon the glen’s lonely path.
The fire, in sparse thickets, still smoulders
as an eagle waits, cloaked in folded dun hued shoulders.
Perched, insolent, the sombre-feathered great bird
gazes down at sad, crispy heather, now charred,
watching from his mountain walls, then
launching forth, screeching, falls, to rise again.
Out of the peak’s black angularity and silhouette,
he swoops, diving, in enraptured pirouette,
riding the last tumultuous avalanche of light
above the pines in guttural, engorged avian flight.
As morning breaks, over rough plush marshland,
loftily, without effort, his wings expand.
On unseen currents of sulphurous flow,
the eagle surveys the charcoal scene below.
Gliding high, dreamlike through broad loops,
circling, then bullet-like, in whistling stoop.
As hung there, on the rein of wimpling wing
the eagle scours the scorched umber ling.