now, looking down

we feel the stunt of our own bones

these thick limbs grown on the ground –

yours taper : made of wind,

sea air – the stuff of storms

wheeling over white caps

their own colour exposed


your head drowses now,

the last lick of high tide:

beak breastbone wingspan

larger than life

one foot gone

feather mounted

straight onto bone


what once was

fishing rising in the updraft

life far from the

circle of nest egg

clack of mother’s beak

the streak and wonder of flight


now we take ourselves

away from your washed

torn wet sand pressed form

even though we have

so many questions

to ask you

children turn away now

time to go.


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