An Ode To A Kite-Hawk

An Ode To A Kite-Hawk. ( written by my Father, Fred Kitchen.)

See him on the branches
Of stately trees, so tall,
Sitting there just like a King,
Or maybe “Sentinel”.

See him basking in the sun
While on the roof he sits;
And sending forth his “Clarion call”
He’s searching for titbits.

To us, below, asleep he seems,
Uninterested too;
But all the time he’s watching us,
And waiting for his cue.

The, suddenly, he spies a plate
Of morsels being borne
By one whose mind is deep in thought,
Who’s looking rather warm.

His sharp eyes gleam, his wing prepare
To guide him on his dive
Upon the plate that is so full
For even he must thrive.

With wings outspread, in splendour grand,
He swoops upon the plate;
And, with a swish, he’s gone again,
Feet clutching choice he’s made.

Too late the man comes back to life
His favourite dish has “run”
And on the roof the Kite Hawk sits,
Eating it in the sun.

India, 1943.