To balance on bracken, flash a blush
of apricot, black cap, white collar;
to use a single note to call a mate,
a whistle as an afterthought, intake
of breath; to flit from rock to rock,
to be at one with stone.
Stand, appreciate short flights. Note
the slant of sky, the spring of moss,
the moments in between. Watch
for the sake of watching. Something hatches
here: a half-formed thought. Donít try
to catch it. Let it hop and flutter.
Thereís nothing in this call: a strike
of pebbles, scree you might dislodge
on mountain tracks. A flick of black,
caught in a corner of your vision.
Forget the destination: hold the blur
of wings, strumming your head, tuning your boots.
If you have any comments on this poem, Julian Dobson would be
pleased to hear from you.