Windhover

I caught this morning morning's minion, king-
    dom of daylight's dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding
    Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding
High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing
In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing,
    As a skate's heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl and gliding
    Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding
Stirred for a bird, – the achieve of, the mastery of the thing!

Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here
    Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion
Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier!
     
   No wonder of it: shéer plód makes plough down sillion
Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear,
    Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermilion.
                                                    Gerard Manley Hopkins
---

Well-known, much-loved, much-analysed and frequently quoted. Glorying in nature, specifically the miracle of a kestrel in flight, and stuffed with Christian religious allusions

I've never considered before that it has anything to do with parenthood, I'm sure Hopkins had no such thing in his mind. We have succeeded in engineering the meeting of the cousins. We have placed ourselves at a convenient mid-point, with bedrooms, bathrooms and space. The gathering has happened and baby Rea and baby Sheaf (their respective rivers) are now acquainted. There has been much exchanging of information, experience and empathy; the fellowship of common endeavour. Consequently, I'm privileged to watch full-bore parenthood first-hand. 

A 'minion' is a favourite or darling; that we have two adored minions here is beyond doubt, morning, noon and night. Our daughter and d-i-l have agreed, nevertheless, that they are 'little Emperors'; they could as well have said kings or dauphins. Plenty of hearts have been stirred, and are now buckled for a lifetime to something both lovely and dangerous. The grinding, exhausting daily drudgery of care for these new champions is as plain to see as that of any plodding ploughman turning a furrow; but the consequent light in the responding eyes of these precious ones is as bright as any ploughshare

I'm inclined to fall into bleak mid-winter blues as the sunlight fades, but these new beings can crack open the cooling embers of my enthusiasm, and reveal the world in vibrant new colours

Sorry, Gerald. I hijacked your poem and left it a little mangled. I'm having an emotional time