The Redshank Speaks Poem by Clive Turnbull

What race is this
hard wintering along the spray line
speaking stone?

Only a man
booted in the salt marsh.
The head is lodestone
and all knowing.
The heart is amber.
His eyes drip obsidian.

An aeon before remembering
this place was cataclysmic
mountaing building
beyond human resonance.

And still he shudders,
sees it all, sees me,
nails it all together.

Migrant to Triassic muds
my beak nails only the worm.
My cry gathers the moment
and beckons him on.