When the wind changes direction,
do your friends say that she is fickle?
Wheeling and soaring, the hawk searches
the sky's silent patterns for
whirlpools and eddies in the liquid blue,
following only the pulse of knowing that rises
in her breast and eye,
reading the ochre outcrops, the granite crags,
the shale shards and basalt buttresses,
the myriad forms of the thrusting, restless earth
that catch and shape the wind and sun,
melding invisible columns of power for the taking.
Fierce, steady eyes
scrutinise that patchwork of pIay,
tapping its effortless buoyancy
when the powerful sinew tires.
Like the hawk, you follow
wed to heart and bone
by the seamless lineage of trust and instinct.
That is the true voice
when you glide and ride
the pillar of easeful power:
the true voice
for the voices of your friends
can no longer be heard up here.