Above the yawing water's swing and swell,
The smack and buffet of unfastened weather,
A kestrel hovers, each updraughted feather
Hung from the airy ceiling's aquarelle

By a quilled shiver, stationed there to quell
Or check this urge to riot, the sole tether
That holds the justling elements together
Which otherwise will fall, as ever fell,

Apart. One subtle wing twitch to correct
The way the land lies, how the harbour bends
Around that point, a head click to inspect

The grasses and what beats them silver-grey
At random. Now. She lets go and descends,
And through that space wind sweeps the space away.