pink feet tucked beneath their tails,
more wild geese cross the coast.
Weary arctic wings straining
to clear the hushed moor.
Two long, wavering skeins –
broadhead arrows in the sky.
The matriarch at the point falls back.
Bleating cries: ‘I’m here! I’m here!’
‘Are you there?’ – ‘I’m here! I’m here!’
They clutch my heart again,
as they do each October.
I’m stirred by something old,
the time of migration.
What is it that I need to do?