A day of wild, wide spaces,
sleeping mud,
of drowning willows washing
weeping hair;
the cormorant streaked down the
silver flood,
he cut my sight, death-black -
then was not there.
Jet-setting to the dying sun, he
hurled
through some cool air-world
fringed in ecstasy.
The joy is gone; the wings of day
are furled
in brooding grey, in feathered
ivory.
He haunts my crying heart; what
have I done?
I drove him down the sky; I heard
a gun.
(February,
1988)
