The Visitor

Above the urban landscape

No bird seems to fly;

Though peripatetic pigeons

Sometimes journey by,

Or a lonely seagull sounds

His harshly haunting cry.

But when Winter wields his scythe

And bares the railway track

A solitary hunter hangs,

Menacing and black,

Beating wings uphold him

Against the sullen sky;

A keen-eyed kestrel watches,

His country skills to try.