All Birds    by  Jan Owen

they said once
are dark against the sun…
When they no longer woke
to the poured gold of blackbird notes
lifting the blind to dawn
nor the squabble of sparrows
raising the dust
and when the egrets angling still as art
in the marsh were just white paint
and the wind-held hawk or gull
was a soot-speck, symbol, word behind glass
and the last lark's song was written
off and the final tern
had choked in oil
the game of consequences seemed half-won.
There waited only the long-frayed
nests of honey-eaters
empty eyries
flute bones
fossil wrens.
Who could remember albatross?
What could bird mean?
And why keep watch
for any feathery sign?
Listening through empty air
for the blue country
almost forgotten, entirely lost.
With each day's quiet breath
searching upwards again in the east.

© Jan Owen