In Wales they used to fear my call
like the sight of a magpie
or the sound of an afternoon cock crow.
I can’t imagine why they call me gylfinir
there, for it sounds nothing like
the noise I make, cur-lee.
Now they dread the thought
of my demise, rejoice
at my return to the Yorkshire Dales.
Some think my name means running,
which I never do at all. My beak
catches worms as chopsticks do noodles,
or a pair of tweezers pulls out
an unwanted hair, which when closed
it could be said to resemble. Curved.
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