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.





