Master Of The Highlands
A poem
A poem
A shadow glides, surveying
from its lofty reach,
dark shape drifting, all-seeing.
Sable plumes cut the azure, forever ascending.
curved daggers lie ready,
craving crimson’s warmth,
and as the sentry waits
with saintly patience,
a stir below spurs the dance,
precision its partner.
Circling, with icy purpose,
surveying the landscape,
keen eyes to pierce the shadows,
missing nothing.
Vulnerable creatures scatter below,
fearful, fleeing.
But none escape the swift plunge,
gravity’s pull.
Hooked beak strikes,
a gust of feather and gore,
sacrifice to fill the void,
then, heavenward it turns,
essence replenished.
None contest this rule,
talons blood-tinged, as
in the empty blue it fades,
a final dark blemish.