Raptor Watch

The road to Devil’s Bridge
was silly with buzzards;
no two alike, rabbit-sentries
on borders of damp fields;
we stopped to look at the first three or four.
Later, the star prize;
a single red kite
angling down to his secret roost
in some nameless valley.

Today the buzzards
lay siege to Manchester’s suburbs;
they clench their talons on the pylons
in anticipation of a guinea pig holocaust.
The kites span the M40 by the dozen,
breeze-blown copper and cream,
a teatime treat for commuters.
But we don’t even slow down.