Wind hover

Hopkins caught him riding the dawn (in fact, caught her, for he describes the dapppled female). I caught him at sun down, hung up against a red broken sky. I take my hat off to Hopkins, as always. He avoids saying the one obvious thing – which I could never resist. The falcon hangs in the air cruciform, as though riding his brokenness. The link is there in the poem but unspoken. What mastery of the wind is that?

And I take my hat off to Robert Bridges too – such fostering of the greater talent. That is another mastery.

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