The boomerang bird.

The boomerang bird is back with us again,
the tireless sickle,  slashing swathes of wind
inflicting wounds with wicked scything wings,
shrieking summer's swift ecstatic pain.

It flings itself at frightened insects,  flies
on whittled blades,  deadly smooth and fast,
recoiling every spring to England's fist
after autumn hurled it from the skies.

An agony of earthlessness suspends
the bird in the air,  the bird that's born to live
in the air,  that flirts in flight,  that coos its love
and glides to sleep in the air,  revives,  ascends
and drops on dithering victims that didn't believe
the scimitar swish could speed their summer's end.

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