Michael Farry – Sparrowhawk

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Live Encounters Poetry & Writing Volume One Nov-Dec 2026.

Sparrowhawk, poems by Michael Farry.

Sparrowhawk

A sparrowhawk snatched a pigeon
in full daylight in an English village high street,
her Monday morning wonder.
We wondered how to make a poem of it.

A Wordsworth spot of time, maybe,
Tennyson’s tooth and claw? But seriously
are predators more heedless now
more brazen in their daylit deadly descents?

Maybe, but she stressed the normal,
the survival instinct, the need for food
the brutal natural rhythms
of those world-wide self-sustaining systems.

The village name, I said, we need
an Edward Thomas touch, Stow on the Wold
Much Wenlock, Nether Wallop, Clun,
where greengrocers still count apples

butchers cut steak, the shop windows
promote the village scarecrow festival
and visitors pause to survey
what remains of the Franciscan abbey.

But as the natives greet and pass
do they, uneasy, find themselves glancing
skywards, mistake rooks for raptors
expect death to drop at any moment?

Hallowe’en

Hell, I need no more tricks
I’ve spent a lifetime perfecting one
And I need no more treats
My partying dancing days have been done
Give me the real or nothing at all.

I don’t need skeletons
My parents, two sisters, all dead and gone
Nor do I need demons
Locked in the attic, mine bang on and on
Give me the real or nothing at all.

No Superman outfit
My powers are kaput, the joker has won
Or a Dracula mask
The doctor diagnosed hypertension
Give me the real or nothing at all.

And I need no magic
I’m mesmerized by my ten grandchildren
I need no more witches
When one cannot speak, one must keep dumb
Give me the real or nothing at all.

What May Memories