Curlew Call Poem by Martin Ward

Curlew Call

It cut the silence
in a chill moment:
the Curlew call.
Shrill crescendo
that dared to kill
my mood music.
No eyrie bugle
from some far
and distant land.
Here. Now. Present.
Stabbing my heart;
running me through
with dread
of something
still unknown.
Myths apart:
blessed or cursed
in equal measure.
Mysterious at midnight,
or tap-tap-tapping
at my daytime door.
Still it calls.
I fear its threat
of change or loss,
and yet it draws me.
A call that sings
of pain awaiting.
Echoes that race
and chase rivulets
across the sands.
Standing water,
moving, it seems
without breeze
or hand of nature.
Aboriginal lore
affords many meanings,
but this is a different place.