See the Wetlands where the Ibis roost-
Adjacent to the railway track-
Each rookery is a Lilliput
Where a single upright bird might stand
As tall as any Gulliver
In the quiet parishes of reeds.
When Ibis move
They do so in rosters of fastidious steps
Each bird as polite as a grandad
Who is looking for the salt.
Their beaks are like locksmiths’ tools,
And, it is rumoured, they are keepers of great secrets.
Stooped in twos or threes like patient skittles,
They whisper quiet inventories
Of silvered figments and storied frogs.
It is said that they have abdicated all temporal power
To a parliament of owls,
And in this they may be wise.
As I pass them in the train I fancy that
I might almost connect them with a series of clicks
To form a feathered pagoda
Or a hieroglyph that stands for ‘sshhhh…’
But, despite their show of gravitas,
I have seen them rise as one
From a distant field
As clean as a plague lifting
From the shires of ancient Egypt,
To take to the air
And cruise the highest altitudes,
To break and wander on their whims,
But always to return
And swoon in languid delible lines
And make of their silences
Those long and sacred Vees.