Consulting a pocket book of British birds
he curses the ravens which, aesthetically, displease him.
One hand cocks binoculars, the other's thumb
keeps the page. No eagles yet - not anywhere
along the soaring ridge,
none in the gully and none at the tree line.
Soon the day will close. Your bored parents are eating
mint cakes at the near shore of the trouting lake,
watching your brother dig for the flattest stones
while the dog goes back to jump the cattle grid.
He is tiring now
of the craned neck and the inevitable ravens,
his muddied feet dragging through heather bells and lamb's jaws.
Soon the day will close on us
while the eagles shelter still in their nooks
with bellies full of carrion from the last week's hunt.
We leave them, empty handed, wind bitten
faces staring out of wound up windows
to a darkening sky which belongs now,
as ever, to no-one.
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