Hawkish

A military strategist, a scout,
his constant eyes would pierce armour, maps,
excuses. Softly spoken, yet the clout
to win the loyalty of all his chaps.
The jaw, above the turtleneck that traps
one collar wing, was resolute, the mouth
steel. But gentle the cradled hand that wraps
a pair of specs, worn since the move down south.
Now nested with his niece in Haywards Heath
(she’s rescued many a wounded bird of prey)
he pinions the duality of truth,
with one wing trapped, the other flying free.
Swans pair for life. He’d swap every hour
of solitary flight to be with her.