Flemish tapestry, fifteenth century
Gentleness and starvation tame
The falcon to this lady’s wrist.
Natural flight hooded from blame
By what ironic fate or twist?
For now the hunched bird’s contained flight
Pounces upon her inward air,
To plunder that mysterious night
Of poems blooded as the hare.
Heavy becomes the lady’s hand,
And heavy bends the gentle head
Over her hunched and brooding bird
Until it is she who seems hooded.
Lady, your falcon is a peril.
IS starved, is mastered, but not kind.
The bird who sits your hand so gentle,
The captured hunter hunts your minds.
Better to stare the senseless wind
Than wrist a falcon’s stop and start:
The bolt of flight you thought o bend
Plummets into your inmost heart.