The Keening Curlew

The Keening Curlew

A poem for our times: written on a local hike just before the lockdown.  There is hope at the end…

The Keening Curlew

Hail, blown by Artic Maritime wind

Stings. Westmorland whitens, all sound freezes.

I take shelter in a hill side lime kiln

Stone cold. No fire here, all warmth has been mined.

Pulling my dog close wary with unease

Numbed. Quiet, waiting as the cold seeps in.

Steams of light cut through the icy veil

Glimpses of a silhouette, then the lament

As a curlew keens his incantation.

His lovelorn song tells such a sad tale

Memories of moors filled with enchantment-

His thoughts turn- to hope and flirtation.

They say: for the sick, birth chimes bring belief

A moment of joy in a landscape of grief.

Hear it read so beautifully on: