The Seabirds
Out on the crumbling landscape’s farthest edge, Their winter journey starts, and while I know Some names, I can’t recall from stripe of wing Or sobbish cry which honours which. And so This panic by a fading coastal ledge Is all that’s left — an urgent need to bring Old screams back round in one last salt-sprayed plea, Reminiscence crashing up the sand: The wave-break when you pushed away my hand Eroding me down to an enemy, Beginning our migration with your words.