Our seventh ghosting in as many days; a thrill
of honking overhead, curtains still drawn
and silver edged. We speculate
over breakfast; are these practice migrations,
training runs from lake to lake; from the Business Park
near the motorway to the reservoir
at Thornton? And if so, could it be the same flock
returning now, a low V fanned across pink cloud
as I drain steaming pasta at the sink? Or is it another band
entirely, travelling west to east, working their turn
like cyclists in a peloton? And that staggered pair,
gapped and off beam, are they frantic
to close, to make the arrow whole? Or do they only
see each other, become one beating wing?
First published in The Rialto, Spring 2016.