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CHOUGHS
Mortem sibi consciscere.
it’s a shame about the name,
but a glorious bird, all the same, the chough;
· it’s seldom seen, yet I saw ten
this breezy afternoon on the usual beach.
standing at the reach of the tide,
I marvelled at the ragged rare little flock: red beaks, red legs, conspicuous amongst the all-black jackdaws
they shared the air and sand with, in perfect amity,
there being more than enough for all on this seaweed-strewn tideline.
the choughs floated on the west wind: dipped, bobbed, flew straight, flew slow, dispersed, landed, fed, came back together, flapping soot-black against
the autumn-seared drabness of the cliffs, black against the morning-glory-blue sky, wings ragged like carelessly rent carbon paper or the ribs of wrecked umbrellas,
quiet cries scarcely heard
above the sizzle of the west seething sea.
these are birds only of the west: look in vain in brutal Manchester, look in vain in sterile Milton Keynes. you’re as likely to see an eagle,
a condor, an ostrich.
look for them only in the west, the west of mists and grey granite,
the west of yellow winter gorse, the west of soft winds
and the whispering to you of kind ghosts.
