FIONA SAMPSON

The Rapture

That pew pew’s a buzzard –
rags in wind,
its call throws down a line

of perfect pitch,
sweet and sharp,

plumb
through blue afternoon –
the way a salmon,
cooling itself,
               surrenders
to the rapid brace and flux
of water,

immersion wholly chosen
yet without desire,

as if to live were something straight
as this gaze –
                not hard hover
but dive –

eye and wing
one single muscle
beating through air

till both are snatched-up
in rapture:

leveret screaming
in the cup
              of claws –

a creature struggling
towards the light.

Valentina Monica Barba

Fiona Sampson
 

Ridicarea in inalt

Oare ce se aude? –
E sorecarul cu penele in vant.
Chemarea lui cade in linie

perfecta,
lina, abrupta,

o sageata
in azurul dupa-amiezii,
asemenea somonului
care racorii
              se ofera
in leaganul si unduirea
apei,

cufundare anume aleasa,
desi fara elan,

ca si cum viata ar fi dreapta
ca aceasta ochire –
              nu planare,
ci picaj –,

si ochi, si aripa –
doar un muschi,
o bataie prin aer

pana sunt prinse
de extazul ridicarii in inalt:

tipatul unui iepure plapand
din ostensoriul
            ghearelor –
o zbataie a firii
spre lumina.