ON WAKING
Hawk hovers
and falls from the firmament.
Peet, roosting in dawn frost,
thinks of mornings
spent enveloped
in the cotton womb
of her grandparent’s bed.
Grief, she thinks,
is just an inflammation
of memory;
a fine tendon
slowly ripping itself
from wingtip
to beak.
From Lapwing by Hannah Copley, published Pavilion Poetry Press. Available to order here with 25% off using your member discount code
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