The Birds

The Birds

Untouched by other worlds
they preen in high-up haven boughs
scramble upside down
in shadowed leaves and light.
All day long
the murmur of indolent birds.
In the musket blaze
of flowering kowhai
bellbirds flit and gorge
on pendulums of clustered
yellow trumpets.
Chatterbox larks
rise up to their aerial kingdom,
orbit in blue meadows
proclaim from their high up pulpits.
But no one is listening.
Waders stalk the hem of sea—
white-laced and whispering
its same old cadences and songs-
and look, an ocean wanderer
come to rest
bleached bones, ragged feather flag
a broken yellow wing.
Here on these black sands
that were once mountains
everything finds its end.
I once held your hands here
the thin bones
while you wept all
your griefs at the sea.
Oh my dear
Oh my dear

At dusk the bats will reign.

– Jogyata.

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