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
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Author:
FrasMac (
Offline) - Published: June 7th, 2026 14:51
- Comment from author about the poem: The first stanzas mention two birds once common in the fields near where I live, but no longer found there. The rest of the poem describes their return to my consciousness, many years later in another more remote, unspoiled, part of Scotland. (the colloquial term "Peewit" (peewee) is better known as Lapwing or Plover)
- Category: Unclassified
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