The curlew.
Carefree
the curlew, to my thinking
looking
upwards from beneath
into a
cloudwashed sky
replete
with rain not falling.
And the
circling and the diving
with
curving beak
down-pointing,
wings
spread gliding
or
beating up against the windless air,
eyes
scanning needle-sharp
to pin-point
whatever food is there
inland
from the richness,
eagre*-fed,
of the salt-marsh
estuary bed,
if only
for an earthy feast
of worms
from rain-washed
ground released.
And the
strident crying
with
unique, persistent,
triple-calling
notes fast-dying,
addressed
to nothing,
or perhaps
a distant mate far-flying,
loud-carrying
above
the silver sweetness
of the
blackbird’s jealous vying
and the
mocking cuckoo newly fledged
and the
cheeseless** yellowhammer,
silly
on the hedge.
Carefree
the curlew, to my unthinking
not
driven by instinct’s insistence
unknown
to my own fey existence,
not
realising that this morning’s early breaking
of the
night-starved fast
to daily
feed the famished wide-mouthed gaping
is a
task not lightly asked.
*An 'eagre' is a tidal river bore found especially on the Humber.
** Refers to the yellowhammer's call of "just-a-little-bit-of-bread-and-no-cheese".
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