Windhover

Today we walk to Angel Bay - the longest of our local walks. It’s a stunningly beautiful day; sunshine and clear blue skies, with a bone-chilling wind blowing off the sea. 

The Little Orme’s burnt sienna cliffs rise from the grassy headland, but I’m in no mood to search for fulmars today - and in any case, the silence suggests they’re no longer nesting here. 

We look down on the seals - the few that are ashore are clumped on the rocks as the tide is in and little beach is left for lazing. One seems posed delightfully, flippers together as if in prayer. 

We sit on a bench, freezing in the icy wind despite the sun, when suddenly we spot a sleek raptor hovering over the edge of the cliff. We think it’s a kestrel - please tell me if it isn’t! I’ve never seen one before and it’s just mesmerising, holding itself steady against the wind, riding the currents. Its old name is ‘Windhover’ - how appropriate. 

Gerald Manley-Hopkins describes this creature far better than I ever could in his poem of the same name 


The Windhover 

I caught this morning morning's minion, king-
    dom of daylight's dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding
    Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding
High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing
In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing,
    As a skate's heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl and gliding
    Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding
Stirred for a bird, – the achieve of, the mastery of the thing!

Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here
    Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion
Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier!
     
   No wonder of it: shéer plód makes plough down sillion
Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear,
    Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermilion.