The Word Catcher

Some days, words come with a lark`s free fall,

or drop, plump with soot, like fledgling jackdaws in the hearth -a dark surprise.

An ashy buzzard`s plumy swoop to one fixed eye-sharp spot

would be my paradigm -

cruel, lovely brindled feathers hushing a soft, wind-powered landing.

But I must work at words,

worry them like a thrush with a tight snail,

learn the deft crash of shell on stone,

peck out the snug meat, soft as mussels, tough as squid.

And I must put on gear to catch my words,

slip my pen-cramped hand into a falconer`s glove,

take blooded meat

and swing the baited lure.

While you, my speckled merlin, snatch at flesh

with claws scaled as a tortoise`s stretched neck,

I`ll slip the hood over your stony eyes,

take your full-feathered weight on my curved arm

and watch the brown stain of hung meat

spread on my leathered wrist.