The Hawk in the Rain 
Ted Hughes 

I drown in the drumming ploughland, I drag up 
Heel after heel from the swallowing of the earth's mouth, 
From clay that clutches my each step to the ankle 
With the habit of the dogged grave, but the hawk 

Effortlessly at height hangs his still eye. 
His wings hold all creation in a weightless quiet, 
Steady as a hallucination in the streaming air. 
While banging wind kills these stubborn hedges, 

Thumbs my eyes, throws my breath, tackles my heart, 
And rain hacks my head to the bone, the hawk hangs 
The diamond point of will that polestars 
The sea drowner's endurance: and I, 

Bloodily grabbed dazed last-moment-counting 
Morsel in the earth's mouth, strain towards the master- 
Fulcrum of violence where the hawk hangs still. 
That maybe in his own time meets the weather 

Coming the wrong way, suffers the air, hurled upside down, 
Fall from his eye, the ponderous shires crash on him, 
The horizon traps him; the round angelic eye 
Smashed, mix his heart's blood with the mire of the land. 

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Hawk Roosting 

Ted Hughes 

I sit in the top of the wood, my eyes closed. 
Inaction, no falsifying dream 
Between my hooked head and hooked feet: 
Or in sleep rehearse perfect kills and eat. 

The convenience of the high trees! 
The air's buoyancy and the sun's ray 
Are of advantage to me; 
And the earth's face upward for my inspection. 

My feet are locked upon the rough bark. 
It took the whole of Creation 
To produce my foot, my each feather: 
Now I hold Creation in my foot 

Or fly up, and revolve it all slowly - 
I kill where I please because it is all mine. 
There is no sophistry in my body: 
My manners are tearing off heads - 

The allotment of death. 
For the one path of my flight is direct 
Through the bones of the living. 
No arguments assert my right: 

The sun is behind me. 
Nothing has changed since I began. 
My eye has permitted no change. 
I am going to keep things like this.