Hawk by Peter Thomason

Curve-clawed, she gripped my fist,

Alert, settled in fierce composure.

Beak like the briar’s ripping thorn,

And then, that gaze.

Keen eye of hawk-lore warning,

Pupil of dark infinity,

Piercing portal to the soul;

A fire-fenced inquisitor.

Dare to look!

Transparent to a harsh honesty

And stripped even of dark imaginings;

There are no secrets.

Just my muttered confession

And a humble apology –

Aspirations scrawled on tattered pages

Hung from rusty nails.