The Death Of The Bird
Kelly, Paul [Australia]
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For every bird, there is this last migration
Once more the cooling year kindles her heart
With a warm passage to the summer station, love
Pricks the chords, sends lights across the chart
Year after year, a speck on the map divided
By a whole hemisphere summons her to come
Season after season, sure of safely guided
Going away, she is also coming home
And being home, memory becomes a passion with
Which he feeds her brood and straws her nest
Aware of ghosts that haunt the heart's possession
And exiled love mourning within the breast
The sands are green with a mirage of valleys
The palm tree casts a shadow not its own
Down the long architrave of temple or palace
Blows a cool air from moorland scarps of stone
And day by day, the whisper of love grows stronger
That delicate voice more urgent with despair
Custom and fear constraining her no longer
Drives her at last on the waste leagues of air
A vanishing speck in those inane dominions
Single and frail, uncertain of her place
Alone, a bright host of her companions
Lost in the blue unfriendliness of space
She feels it close now, the appointed season
The invisible thread is broken as she flies
Suddenly, without warning, without reason
The guiding spark of instinct winks and dies
Try as she will, the trackless world delivers
No way, the wilderness of life, no sign
The immense and complex map of hills and rivers
Mocks her small wisdom with its vast design
And darkness rises from the eastern valleys and
The winds buffet her with their hungry breath
And the great earth with neither grief nor
Malice receives the tiny burden of her death