When angled sun through slanted rays
Creates a multi-coloured arc
And nature with its paint box plays
Over summer green and winter stark,
The rainbow hawk again will fly.
We do not count its life in days
But in the brief and fleeting praise
Of colour arching through the sky.
We will not see the rainbow hawk
But only where its wingtips brushed
The air, swift as a lightning fork,
Our secret moment, silent, hushed.