Curlew

 

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.