The Farmers Falcon

The sunlight clears the bed sheets
Of lace and dew, from the bed of immense green.
An embroidery of cape sorrell
Is finished by the amber hands of spring,
And the farmer comes up to exhale the Girgenti.

On his padded arm he holds
His falcon; traveller of the chaste sky.
The pride is soft and brown in his feathers,
And his lust glimmers like polished diamond
Upon his medieval claws.

Having sown his crops
The farmer comes up to the hill
Neat the Big Cave, leaving his wife
To simmer the rabbit on the slow flame
With her volcanic hands.

Before every flight, the farmer
Whispers into the falcons ears:
"Bring me a tongue of St.Paul
From the napping fishing village."
Off he flies like a Siren swimming in the waves of dew.

As he waits, the farmer sits
On the ashes of his ancestry
When his vowels mixed with the sea
And spawned sky blue centuries.
The falcon returns in the horizon.

Settling back unto the farmers outstrecthed arm,
The falcon holds in his half-moon beak
A crucifix carved from volcanic ash.
The farmer throws it away: "Bring me a tongue
Of St.Paul from the napping fishing village."

Once more, the falcon flew off.
A shepard passed by the farmer, as he waited.
"Good morning" shouted the shepard,
"Good morning" the farmer replied,
"Strong winds today!" shouted the shepard tipping his tweed cap.

Amidst the groans of the wooly herd
The falcon swooped down on the farmers arm.
This time he brought back a strange crop or herb
Such as the farmer had never seen:
It was an alien Vanilla Pod, glittering with sacred tears.

In frustration the farmer threw it down,
And began on his way back to the farm
Promising himself to go to the market, for a new falcon
"To bring me a tongue of St.Paul
From the napping fishing village."