Image credit E-Bird at Cornell
For a few glorious moments,
a small swathe of sky
over the tidal flats
is filled with
a sweeping, swooping
murmuration of spangled Golden Plover.
White, black,
brown, gold
dazzling, dull;
bright, shadowed,
changing on each instant,
as the small cloud
shifts from one spectacular shape to another.
With no apparent leader,
but each feathered body able
to avoid collision
with their fast-moving neighbours,
possibly by positioning themselves
relatively to seven of their co-fliers.
It is an exuberant, small miracle of creation.
October 2025
This poem is one from ‘My Lindisfarne Collection’ which can be found HERE