You are so fair, peregrine –
so fierce and so fair.
How the rugged scent
of the hawthorn fills the air.

I once bloomed out of nothing,
out of twigs the weaver wove.
I was one with the dark falcon.
I was one with the white grove.

All eternity was mine
to watch a wet stamen’s curve.
I could hear seedlings whisper
inside the swollen earth.

Now I have a home and this
secret world is so remote.
How the hawthorn scent
scratches at my throat.

How you’re flying, peregrine,
just sweeping ahead.
Now you’re dark, now mottled,
now you’re rusty red.

Your shadow cuts clean
across the bare hill.

I am the white grove.
I am the peregrine.