The onlooker somehow fears this billowing
almost a smoke erupting from ancient landscapes
a smoke that a voice possesses
a voice that it owns, and uses to persuade,
sears into the mind with something
insubstantial yet tangible at its centre
as of a dark blaze suddenly ignited
shifting, drifting into a murderous haze
morphing into half-imagined shapes and shades
written after watching an Arts programme about the life of Ted Hughes, where the opening shots were of starlings swirling and whirling about