Jack Thacker grew up on a farm in Herefordshire. He is currently a PhD candidate at the Universities of Bristol and Exeter, researching contemporary British and Irish poetry and agriculture. He is the co-founder of the York-based poetry magazine, Eborakon.


The Hare in the Snow


My eyes adjust to a sky

as blank as a headache, a landscape

of snow-cloud florescence.


I walk across covered ploughed fields,

down delicate blackthorn hedgerows,


when a few feet away a furrow breaks for cover –


it runs

it runs and runs

and runs


bounding over whiteness, shedding whiteness


and where it lay, a crucible of melt

retains its white-hot heartbeat.




Barn Owl


My cave drip footsteps fill the barn

before I sense the silent sound


of wing in darkness –


a carpet beat out of my dimension,

sent from the vacuum of space,


a pure white blade


of soft steel – I see a feathered baby

face. With torchlight I follow


its flight path


as it traces a scythe on the night sheet

and is posted through a hole


in the velvet.




The Falconer


One day, he asked me would I like to

handle the hawk? I declined the offer.


How could the bones of the creature weigh

only as much as air? Its talons tightened


onto his stove gloved hand.

But the talent of hawks was lured by his wrist.


He’d release his Harris to the heavens

and watch it disappear – we’d turn our heads


and try to predict the stretch of skyline

from which it would return.