Looping round till it’s a blur 

the falconer swings the weighted lure

beneath the bird, enticing her

to go into a stoop.

 

With hooking bill and crookéd claw 

and plunging like a meteor

she swipes the fakery to the floor

with a vicious slap of feathers.

 

Around the crowd, a communal gasp.

The predator’s grappling in its clasp       

the prize, but is the bird aghast

to find she’s made a dupe?

 

What blazes through that racing mind

when the hoodwinked raptor finds

the trainer took her for a ride?:

the lure is only leather.

 

Some may wonder why I watch.

Falconry? Hypocrite! Is it not

a bloodsport? What I hate so much?

The truth’s that I’m not sure.

 

I’ve circled round the world on quest

of biggest, smallest, weirdest, best.

I’ve twitched the North, South, East and West

all for a flash of feather.

 

I’ve followed falcons, hawks and eagles

bringing down prey with skill that’s lethal

but cannot say when puzzled people

ask “What is the lure?”

 

Birdlife’s my eternal quarry

but what do they do to fire my fury?

Their teasers wheel, fast and blurry.

Are they real or leather?