Clive Wilmer
Bird-Watcher
It returns to the same nest. The watcher lies
Beneath spring brushwood to await its coming —
At watch so long he dreams himself becoming
Less than himself and more, the landscape’s eyes.
Though far beyond his eyes, beyond the range
Of field-glasses, he knows it breaks no bonds:
Its instinct to his knowledge corresponds,
Riding the current of the season’s change.
What is there in a small bird’s blood that learns
To plot its course by sun and stars, being drawn
Yearly toward a lost, remembered dawn?
The watcher broods on this. The bird returns.
And all its colours flash where he attends —
A deep blue, mantling rust and white —, it sings
Caged in his retina; then, on curving wings,
Veers off to vanish where the human ends.
Page(s) 10
magazine list
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