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This poem is taken from PN Review 2, Volume 4 Number 2, January - March 1978.

The Falcon Paul Mills

Often, on summer days, the superintendent would allow him out of bounds for a few hours, usually soon after sunrise, when the lanes were empty and the footpaths unfrequented. Once, he came back trembling, unable to speak. He sat in his chair and would say nothing, despite our questions and our concern.

Early morning, going
Down the road, everything
Seems to be getting on well
Together, the milk-float and the boy
Are getting on with things quietly
In concentration together, no sound
But a few bottles. The air, chilled,
Not spoiled, and the swifts
Diving into patterns that can't catch them,
A loose wreath that tightens too late,
Too high. They snip their way clear
Of what they are doing

And the sun comes through
Seemingly as a result.

It was then I saw where I was heading,

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