Fiddle Flight Poem by John Beaton

The mayflies ride the glides in slow procession
above the burbling eddies' low percussion;
their up-wings test the airs and dance in twitches.
His toe-taps and his fiddle-notes commingle,
one foot in double time, and one in single,
his bow-wrist drawing hints of lonesome touches

like wingtips brushing water. Blue and blurry,
a kingfisher skims by, a chattering flurry
that peels into a quietening pool of shadows.
And, leaning forwards, eyelids closed, his pulsing
body spring-winds and unwinds, convulsing,
as grace-notes rise like damselfly imagos.

Two merlins flex their wing-wrists and together,
stroking the winds with phalanges and feather,
they plunge and swing to horizontal planing—
he bends his elbow to the bow-stroke, wringing
the air and holds it long and double-stringing,
long and double-stringing, slow and gaining

power. Teals are slaloming meanders,
slip-streaming after arrowing mergansers
in echelons down the river. At the ocean
migrations, rafted on the estuary,
attune to Martin's call and, breaking free,
their surf of wings uprises with a motion

that rears and rolls towards the far horizon
in clouds composed of whirring masses, risen,
like dancers at a mediaeval fair,
uplifted by the music that has spurred
this journey: wings that beat without a bird—
the muscle-memory of County Clare.