Over Cushendun

A falcon flies, wings beat fast in deepening skies.
She dives.

Into an autumn storm forming high over the gilded
moors and glens of Cushenden.

Late September, the woods and weeds ablaze
with an autumnal palette unrestrained.

Down deeper, closer to wood and smaller copse.
the day solemn, then sun erupts through black almost.

Blinding light and scattered rays unseen for days,
and lasting moments only.

Limb and leaf glitter in the seams of sound, running water falling fast
above the aqueduct in silver streams.

Cushenden burns bright with the hues of autumn’s
dying days  and frosted nights.

Lit with burgundy and blazing gold of oak, and bronze of beech
forged in burnished copper smoke,

Further in the willows weep and genuflect,
as birch bursting forth in new aspect.

Lime, vermillion and acid lemon, brilliant, bright.
All at their best before the glowing  black storm light.

Falling now to tips and tops, further still she drops.
Skimming limbs held aloft. Echoes soft. on feathered breast.

Whisper of the breath of living things, things that run and things on
beating wings. Birds call soft in remembrance of spring.

Then the rain drums hard on turning leaves. Rapid percussive
tapping sound. Cleaves bright light and arcing flash hot to ground

Above scorched earth thunders sounds.

She finds shelter on a dry perch to quiver in the power and thrall
of the growing storm rolling over Cushenden.

© Dave Kavanagh 2016

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