IV. The Curée (from A Quartet For the Falcon)

By Caitríona O'Reilly
The secretive hart turns at bay,
lowers his tines to the hounds’ cry.
The sword enters the bull’s heart—
                        still he stands,
            amazed on the red sand
as the stony unbeliever might,
 
who has seen God. Soon now
horns will sound dedow
for the unmaking. Beaters flush
                        the grey heron
            like a coney from its warren,
the peregrine’s jet eyes flash.
 
They go ringing up the air,
each in its separate spiral stair
to the indigo rim of the skies,
                        then descend
            swift as a murderer’s hand
with a knife. Death’s gesture liquefies
 
in bringing the priestly heron down.
Her prize, the marrow from a wing-bone
in which she delights, her spurred
                        fleur-de-lys tongue
            stained gold-vermilion—
little angel in her hangman’s hood.

Copyright Credit: Caitriona O’Reilly, "IV. The Curee (from A Quartet for the Falcon)" from The Nowhere Birds. Copyright © 2001 by Caitriona O’Reilly.  Reprinted by permission of Bloodaxe Books Ltd. (Great Britain).
Source: The Nowhere Birds (Bloodaxe Books, 2001)