Like a bundle of old rope and iron Nightly over the round world of men Sleeps till blue dusk. Then reappear Over the roofs go his eyes and outcry. His eyes, green as ringstones: he yawns wide red, Fangs fine as a lady's needle and bright. Hawk Roosting A tomcat at a mounted knight, sprang I sit in the top of the wood, my eyes closed. Locked round his neck like a trap Inaction, no falsifying dream of hooks Between my hooked head and hooked feet: While the knight rode fighting its Or in sleep rehearse perfect kills and eat. clawing and bite. After hundreds of years the stain's The convenience of the high trees! there The air's buoyancy and the sun's ray On the stone where he fell, dead of the Are of advantage to me; tom: And the earth's face upward for my inspection. That was at Barnborough. The tomcat still My feet are locked upon the rough bark. Grallochs odd dogs on the quiet, It took the whole of Creation Will take the head clean off your To produce my foot, my each feather: simple pullet. Now I hold Creation in my foot Is unkillable. From the dog's fury, Or fly up, and revolve it all slowly - From gunshot fired point-blank I kill where I please because it is all mine. he brings There is no sophistry in my body: His skin whole, and whole My manners are tearing off heads - From owlish moons of bekittenings ashcans. He leaps and lightly The allotment of death. Walks upon sleep, his mind on the For the one path of my flight is direct moon Through the bones of the living. No arguments assert my right:
Like a bundle of old rope and iron Sleeps till blue dusk. Then reappear His eyes, green as ringstones: he yawns wide red, Fangs fine as a lady's needle and bright. A tomcat sprang at a mounted knight, Locked round his neck like a trap of hooks While the knight rode fighting its clawing and bite. After hundreds of years the stain's there On the stone where he fell, dead of the tom: That was at Barnborough. The tomcat still Grallochs odd dogs on the quiet, Will take the head clean off your simple pullet. Is unkillable. From the dog's fury, From gunshot fired point-blank he brings His skin whole, and whole From owlish moons of bekittenings ashcans. He leaps and lightly Walks upon sleep, his mind on the moon Nightly over the round world of men Over the roofs go his eyes and outcry. Hawk Roosting I sit in the top of the wood, my eyes closed. Inaction, no falsifying dream Between my hooked head and hooked feet: Or in sleep rehearse perfect kills and eat. The convenience of the high trees! The air's buoyancy and the sun's ray Are of advantage to me; And the earth's face upward for my inspection. My feet are locked upon the rough bark. It took the whole of Creation To produce my foot, my each feather: Now I hold Creation in my foot Or fly up, and revolve it all slowly - I kill where I please because it is all mine. There is no sophistry in my body: My manners are tearing off heads - The allotment of death. For the one path of my flight is direct Through the bones of the living. No arguments assert my right:
ted_hughes_poetry.docx