They colonise the spaces of the night,
chilling the blood to splinters of black ice;
on frosty flats they echo, formless, desolate.
What kind of creature utters such a cry:
is it the spirit's long farewell to life,
the transit of the unquiet sacrificed?
It is the nameless terror of the child.
They lie in wait to curdle silences; tonight
as other nights they take my breath; I lie
between cold covers, petrified: whose turn
has come, who will they summon next?
Once, I saw them stranded in the warm
sun of a winter's day, trapped
beneath a sapling in the carpark, watching
silently. Otherworldly spooks, a baleful
frieze, they stood at bay, plumed
basilisks with tawny eyes disarmed by light.
Note: It is believed by some indigenous people of Australia that the curlew's cry is a harbinger of death.
Spirit Birds
© Copyright: Jena Woodhouse, 2003
Свидетельство о публикации №103030900137
Свидетельство о публикации №103030900137
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