Moorland concerto
Was there ever a more thrilling ensemble?
The wild whoops and daring dives not of the solo violin,
But the rolling tumbling, death defying lapwings.
The woodwind section, a haunting of curlew,
their querulous ascent and curdling decline,
a wild race of whistling oystercatchers,
the redshank that pipes and dips from the wall.
The choir, an alchemy of plaintive plover,
banking gold and white and back to gold again,
the skylarks locked in their trilling elevators
and the paragliding squeaking of pipits,
the brass is the honking pairs of greylag geese on morning patrol,
percussion, the humming, thrumming, drumming of roller coaster snipe.
All this, while wheatears, that slate and primrose spring
take silent ownership of cup and ring.
Published on:
April 11, 2011
