There is a flutter in the trees,
And now a sudden, dread unease
Stills all the bushland melodies
   Amid the gums;
Stills now the song of wren and thrush,
Robin and honeyeater hush.
Now, with a swoop, a whistling rush,
   Grey goshawk comes.

I am the threat: the dread king.
Grim Azrael, is on the wing,
And every little living thing
   Dares scarce a breath.
And now a parrot, shrill with fear,
Flies dodging there and doubling here
Thro' inlaced limbs, in mad career
   From lusting death.

Grey ghost, grey death, I work my will
O'er forest dense, o'er wood hill,
And on some tree-top rend my kill
   With reddened beak.
There is no have in the tree,
There is no habor safe from me;
In many a singing sanctuary
   My meat I seek.

Beware!  The swift grey ghost is out!
Be still!  Grey death lurks near about!
Crouch close! Shrink low! ... But have no doubt
   I've marked my kill.
Grim nemesis.  I never fail;
Gaint hunger is my spur, my flail.
I feast.  And now away I sail
   O'er the far hill.

"Den"
Herald, 11 March 1933, p8