Winter Migrants Poem by Tom Pickard

a mass of moth-eaten cloud
threadbare and spun across
a bullish moon


an animal wakes
when I walk in winter,

wrapped against
a withering wind,

solitary,

on a Solway flat


winter migrants gather
in long black lines

along a silver sleek

heads held back,
throats
thrust toward

an onshore rush

occasionally cruciform,
static

in a flying wind

as though
in obeisance
to the sea


retracing steps
washed out

by whimpering silt

each tide a season
in the pecking mall


they call as I approach,
an upright spelk

on their shelf,

gathering my notes

and theirs

we scavenge
ahead of our shadows


waiting for what

the tide brings in
or leaves out


purple,
hedged cloud

edged gold

hung
on silver slates
of sand


diverted
leaps of light

surrender water

risen
from rivulets

roughed
from rage


repealing waves
repeat


a curlew's
estuary echo


who,
but you

and the wind's
wake?