Where does the Buzzard go in wintertime?
Where does he take his mighty wing?
In the Summer he may soar
In the blue forever more
Yet in Winter he is seldom seen at all!
Swift and swallows all migrate
To a sunnier climate
In the land of pyramids and crocodiles
Golden Eagles have their glens
Harriers, their marshland fens
But where do Buzzards go their time to while?
Do they retreat into their nest
Wrap up warm and take a rest
From the icy blast the cold North wind doth bring?
Or do they ride above the cloud
Where only angels are allowed
And weather storms while hanging on the wing?
When I’m out upon a walk
The plaintive mew of soaring hawk
Tells me Summer has arrived for certain now
Like the screech of cruising swift,
The tremendous sudden shift
Explodes in life from every leafy bough!
I do not know quite why
But the single piercing cry
Of a Buzzard soaring high up in the blue
Never fails to bring me joy
Ever since I was a boy
It’s the rareness of the sound that touches you
Perhaps I’ll never know
Where my wingéd friends do go
In the deepest, darkest depths of late December
But I know they’ll ever soar
In my heart for evermore
Giving wing to every whim I’ll ever tender!
P J Deakin 2015 ©