1. Foreign, imported from abroad, outlandish.
2. Kind of falcon much used for hawking.
The blog sings
four golden plover, three...
then says the cathedral was table
while the country sat down
The bell-tower’s peregrines open
the ribs of migrants
all winter. And a blackbird
on the North side.
Spring spreads its breast feathers, lets the bald
skin of the sun
brood. The cathedral clock nudges the city
with its long bill. Lenses wait, want
four rufous eggs
by the lion-tailed rump of a gargoyle
and several webcam
eyeballs. The nostril in her beak wears the bony
inlet cone of a jet engine.
Even sleep is ascent as her lower lid rises
A starling’s coverts chequer her ledge. Its hackles, prized
by fly-dressers for wet flies and flymphs,
were cast. The tiercel keeps surfacing from the bottom
of the city.
a serif of the new
letter ‘R’, the lustre of his feet illuminating the blue
like the idle yellow crane. Only the ‘Y’ to finish
glass-office minting sky. Here,
again in his gloves: on
a stone finial, police aerial, council roof safety rails, stashing
a corpse in a quatrefoil.
their global locations
on the blog, a line of tourists sprockets past the telescope
on the green
below, as he reads
them this city,
the bloodied bill of a snipe, the silver lobed toes
of a coot taken
to the radio station. She will
the lead gape
of the nave roof its confetti
of feet and beaks.
A world is
admiring, angry, arguing; the growing clamour
like the oldest ring
of ten bells in England not
deafening the wing-spreading
the tower’s high pavement, opening
and closing their fledging
umbrellas like spoke-dodging
commuters, until the odd gets
caught, spirals off
The blog uploads
wing bones fossilised in light;
the wind’s angel born
bent. All day,
First published in The Dark Horse 28, Winter / Spring 2012.
I remember thinking, when I first received Caroline Hawkridge’s remarkable poem, that she had surely read the unique, unforgettable J. A. Baker classic on these striking falcons, The Peregrine. But no. If Hughes and Jeffers are to some extent behind this, Hawkridge’s city-centre, webcammed peregrines are, finally, entirely her own, made vivid by thrilling and unexpected details and a bravura use of language (‘rufous’,‘quatrefoil’,‘finial’, ‘flymphs’) and surprising facts: the falcon’s ‘lower lid rises to close’ in sleep, while natural and techological imagery are brilliantly interchangeable: the webcams are ‘eyeballs’; the bird’s beak’s nostril, in an inspired image, is ‘the bony / inlet cone of a jet engine.’ In its dextrously enjambed movement across its line-ends and arresting rhythms (‘by the lion-tailed rump of a gargoyle’!) her poem captures all the peremptory otherness of these breathtaking birds, an otherness accentuated by such a wholly urban setting.