To the belly of an osprey

I saw him at a distance at first,

as if he was, momentarily, my own shadowy reflection,

and in retrospect, it was an arrogance to gaze at him

mid-hover and arch-winged upon a thermal,

watching him, lower, watching me.

His descent - in a hypnotism of physics - 

a swoop, head stooped, head dive.

But I did not see the twisted reverse

of his manoeuvre or his white legs and talons flash

beneath him, only their sudden plunge

and thrust at me in the water.

The throb of my trout heart pulsated every scale

of me and in flight, fish-soul and body beating, I think - 

but I am still alive, I am still alive.

And I have never seen the world

as an osprey can, with the lofty precision

of yellow needling eyes, whilst he has observed

my dappled universe of blue shingle

and bright water many times before.

Held tight, sharp in clutch of flint 

until I am swung to the hook of his beak,

and in the ice-grip of trauma, I see, in that moment,

that being broken can make a poet of us all,

though I am swallowed, swift and torn;

and only of passing satisfaction 

to the belly of an osprey.

Image from pixabay.