The call of lost friends
The Peewit says he’s an acrobat,
his call is up, up, then down,
then flat.
The Curlew calls like no other can,
his voice a plea
to renew the land.
I remember listening
as I lay in bed
in my early light
with no plans ahead
to their plaintive cries
at the stir of day:
when those summers passed
they had flown away.
Now forty years on
in a fallow field
at the end of my world
here they are, revealed
by a similar sun
and familiar breeze:
they are youth to my heart
as I learn my ease.
4/3/24