Peregrine, The Gleam


A female Peregrine Falcon (left) and a male Peregrine Falcon (right)
Photo via

A poem on raptorcide and sub-men.

Dark bronze, and Gleam,
Her eye is weaponry
threaded to claw
with naked hunger.

Peregrine seeks no thrill
into swift death.
Time condenses,
She knows her kill.

Chick to mother, quick arrow
Falconess like no human could.
She lives true, sharp, devoted.
She lives flow, inside her prey.

Clean, cold river, her new matter
Mothered in cliffs next the woods.
Or high church and college tower,
Her slate-sea full of pigeon-fish.

Sub-men, stood in dirt-huddle.
Pints, pocket cash, all red-eared.
Losing their mascuginity for money
On moors, the smell of four by fours.

Throb the metal, impiety
To sanguimund, illiterate in life-love.
Lay down their poison baits
And tax her for a trophy.

Nitrogliss-misborn, hey you.
You do not hunt, you thieve.
Death-blood drunk, thief-scum,
Be empty, for that’s all you are.

Shot in mid dive, her gleam fades.
The rocks hit with light bone, feather.
And for nothing. And the welkin
Bleeds for her mind, as I do now.

Peregrine, she knew real kill-grace.
She knew the hunt, like home.
You, the sub-man, you know nothing.
She is beauty, The Gleam.


by Ginny Battson 2017



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