Bird-Watching

With borrowed binoculars I set forth,
ready to formalise the habit of a lifetime.
Each sighting must be recorded, I'm told —
so furnishing data for a history
of winged presence, charting rhythms of exit
and visitation. (The sea trapped in a sieve.)
Calls are archived, too. But how inscribe
the lapwing's fierce, staccato surge,
that grass bird's high lament in rain-washed reeds?
A willing hostage to elusiveness, I crane
and peer: Look, a spotted redshank — rare!
whispers my guide; And there, a golden plover.
We trawl the wetlands with a light tread: in thrall to
unglimpsed wings, watched by quicksilver eyes.