Poem by J.M. Summers

On top of the lamppost we saw a buzzard



There is an awful patience
in the waiting. The stillness.
Poise. Knowing that everything 
will come to it in good time. 
That everything has its season,
and all that is necessary is 
the patience. Enduring.
Necessary, rather than cruel.
It seems wrong to see it anywhere
other than the mountain-top 
where it can circle, freely;
listening for the keen, mourning
voice. Knowing anyway that it 
regards you with disdain, if 
it regards you at all. Focussed.
Not caring what you would think 
of it, what you might call beautiful.
 

About the Poet:

J.M. Summers was born and still lives in South Wales. Previous publication credits include Another Country from Gomer Press, Borderlines, Sonic Boom, and the Amethyst Review. The former editor of a number of small press magazines, he has published one book, Niamh, a collection of prose and poetry.