In just six lines, this poem sets a quiet image of a wing arriving from the sea beside the moment a master dies. The title, "Hawking," can point two ways: to the bird-hunting sport, and to the name Hawking itself. Judging by the title, the "master" may be a famous figure of that name, but the poem never says so, and it works without that knowledge. It could also be a falconer's master, or a teacher of any kind.
The speaker doesn't describe grief directly. Instead, nature seems to answer the death. A wing sweeps in, then a "great gust" pulls "our thoughts away." The word "our" matters: the feeling is shared, and everyone seems to be swept up at once. The mood is hushed and awestruck, a little dizzy. Death feels both sudden and vast, like wind that lifts you out of ordinary thinking. There's sadness here, but also a sense of wonder, as if the world itself has noticed.