Blueacre
for Jane Hirshfield
Razor-edged
swallows arc
through the air
like grappling
hooks cast
by a sophisticated thief
into this jeweled
landscape. So much
beauty available
for use, the fields
in lacquered panels,
the poppies like satin
emblems of themselves.
The bee-eaters, too,
have their moments
of hieratic beauty –
viewed from below
their black-bordered
wings are self-
consciously dramatic
as a kohl-rimmed eye.
But, they decline to soar,
or even to hover,
fearing perhaps
the depredations
of the ever-circling hawks.
Instead, they fly
in earnest, urgent bursts,
clamping their wings
to their sides
between wingbeats,
and bubbling over
with little spurts of song.
The overall effect
is comic – something
like a flotilla
of steam-powered
parasols, and
the bee-eaters
are chuckling, too,
wearing their dime-
store bandit masks.
They perch companionably
on the telephone wires –
each having skewered
a round-bodied bee
like a cocktail olive –
fluffing out their necks
until they are all neck,
nearly spherical,
having chosen warmth
over elegance
having chosen to stay
close to their dry
burrows in the sandbank,
only occasionally
gesturing skywards
at the shelterless,
the infinitely
glamorous blue.