The Seventh Whistler (after William Wordsworth)

for World Curlew Day April 21st 2025 

 

By slough and marsh my dog commits

to muck and fun on coastal walk

swathed on our way through rugged fields

in Cumberland’s old mizzled cloak.

 

Until a statue he became,

as through sea mist the air was split      

with ghostly cry from unlit worlds:

the seventh whistler on the breeze.

 

A whimbrel lost in search of kin;

six others scattered ‘cross the veil

with messages that once combined

could cast a shadow over all.

 

In dreamlike state, our progress paused,

I bathed in every mournful whaup,

just as a hare broke cover and

instinctively my dog took off.

 

The landscape changed, the game unfurled,

a post-impressionistic dance,

as bird and hare and hound performed

in blurring April ambience.

 

Through timeless swirl of stars, they leapt 

in heavens raised, full throated played,

windswept within the arch of sky,

alive and joyful in this game.

 

Forgotten bind of earthly care,

of boredom, hunger and portent,

the muddy dog, the hare, the bird

cavorted in the firmament.

 

And I felt rich for what I’d seen,

a dream of supernatural worth;

to know of life through ear and eye

with waking thought upon the earth.

 

Yet wondered, as the bird flew by,

of messages in whistlers’ cries.