Who knows what a capricious sea
hides within its subliminal currents,
beneath each turbulent skein
who pierce the air with babel:
the heavens are more reliable.
Pink footed geese are a clan
in flight from glacial roosts,
their young hatched from the ice
of an egg nested upon the courage
of a cliff face. They have learnt
to be observant when dogs are mute,
when a sparrowhawk is just as watchful.
The North Star has anchored midnight,
a bright nail, shifted by glittered gods,
it draws a nation of ashen wings
to join its path. These geese,
a sun's descendants, are intermediaries
between sky and water, mantled
in feathered shrouds of the otherworldly.
We are all lured by a lodestar -
the safety of constancy, we pray
to stay the hand of an ill-fate,
we follow a deathless eye, fixed
amongst a cyclone of stars.
Image is from wikimedia commons of a pink footed goose who have arrived here for the winter. https://commons.m.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Pink_footed_goose.jpg