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There is a sparrow-hawk souring high and low around a huge forest,
Searching, just above the ground into the farm lands and gardens,
He swoops down in a morning sun an atmosphere soft and delightful,
Like a bullet over cowslips and primroses, there is one less robin,

His tail is long and slim it sets him apart from the other hawks,
He flies through his skies clipping the abundant nightingale wings,
Although his eyes see for miles he flies fast and near the ground,
Young pheasants hide in the rich green grass of a lush hidden meadow.

The secret meadow has been left untouched and alone for many years,
Home to the Austrian briar, Guelder roses and fiery orange poppies
Enjoying the peace of a spring morning the grass rich with clover,
The hawk catches a small bird that hangs in the air and swoops away.

The air of the grass is delicious, scattered flowers nod in a breeze,
Butcher-birds are noisy a sure sign that they have some young chicks,
Turtle-doves are abundant in the near by forest well hidden by thorns,
Above all, in an old oak a hawk sits watching, waiting for his dinner.

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