Kestrel, March 2020
Some days it seems enough to learn
the French words for the birds
I can see from my study window
or when we walk along the beach:
goéland; chevalier; grand cormoran;
bécasseau; tournepierre à collier;
and yesterday a faucon crécerelle
unmoving in the wind which stirred
the trees which mark the line
between our garden and the sand.
That’s why, you said, they say it flies
en Saint-Esprit . . .
We may be alone here for weeks.
If so, I’ll keep a watch
hoping he’ll come again
as though he’d bring a blessing
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Tom Vaughan would be pleased
to hear them.