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?