Alighting on the pontoon rail
a migrant swift makes eye contact
and starts to trill an orison
to what a migrant swift holds blessed.
Why can't my spirit
be like this: a thrilling paean
embracing journeys,
piercing, fleeting and intense
as spring's returning to the nest.
The satin indigo of pinions,
rusty smudge of feathered breast
and swallowtail might once have sprung
from scale and fin of ichthyus.
But not the eye, that tiny pool
of fathomless intelligence,
and there's no fish could sing like this
beneath a wing of glowing cloud,
plumage ragged at the edge,
rearing phalanx of immense
colossus raised to honour Nike,
snatched from ancient Samothraki...