I remember a mob of curlews,
 Every bird from the estuary,
 Gathered to hear the gale’s word
 And wrench the worm from Tresemple – 
  
 A five-acre meadow, clover
 And the prayer of a grazing herd,
 And on a rising afternoon of storm
 I heard the quiet of a contented bird,
  
 The tide left for an hour
 To its own restless devices,
 Arcing beaks probing clay,
 And not a word, not a syllable
 Of climate change or global crisis – 
  
 Simply grass, air, a courier crow,
 A sparrow in the willow’s care – 
 And a meadow full of curlew – 
 Was I ever really there?