On a pinnacle projecting
midway down an ocean bluff
powerful birds built
a ring-shaped basket
to protect their young:
capacious, stabilised and strong,
an eyrie and an airy creche
fit to cradle offspring
even larger than their own.
With beaks and feet
as implements,
wings as leverage and brakes,
what sense of geometry
elicited such symmetry
from crooked sticks and flimsy
driftwood's warp and weft?
From above, we peer across
the lip of rock, the dizzy drop
that separates us from
the artefact.
Far below, the sea brings
silver catch to feed the regal brood,
who long have left their crib
for earth-trekkers to marvel at.
I view the eyrie
through the lens of memory:
corona wound
from sea-smoothed wands
once stiff, now twined
to interlace;
regret my words
are pebbles that don't
resonate with inner life,
nor hatch into ungainly eaglets
clamouring for fish.
Austerely flawless as it is,
not in need of commentary,
to indicate its presence
is betrayal of a secret pact
complicit between eagles,
elements and gravity,
preparing a new nursery
precarious as life...