I sit in the top of the wood, my eyes closed. <br />Inaction, no falsifying dream <br />Between my hooked head and hooked feet: <br />Or in sleep rehearse perfect kills and eat. <br /> <br />The convenience of the high trees! <br />The air's buoyancy and the sun's ray <br />Are of advantage to me; <br />And the earth's face upward for my inspection. <br /> <br />My feet are locked upon the rough bark. <br />It took the whole of Creation <br />To produce my foot, my each feather: <br />Now I hold Creation in my foot <br /> <br />Or fly up, and revolve it all slowly - <br />I kill where I please because it is all mine. <br />There is no sophistry in my body: <br />My manners are tearing off heads - <br /> <br />The allotment of death. <br />For the one path of my flight is direct <br />Through the bones of the living. <br />No arguments assert my right: <br /> <br />The sun is behind me. <br />Nothing has changed since I began. <br />My eye has permitted no change. <br />I am going to keep things like this.<br /><br />Ted Hughes<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/hawk-roosting/
