Diane Fahey: Cormorants at Solstice

Shades of the goose, the penguin? But that conduit
of snow-striped black, the lithe fluidity
on shore, are yours. Twin peaks, gothic against
humdrum waves, loom as feathers dry.
Body shapes - comic, ingenious or
statuesque - suggest an alphabet
of pictograms, odd pieces of furniture.

What would I need to lose, embrace, to be
so innocent of time; at rest in the fullness,
the adequacy, of what I know? A bevy
of swans and moorhens shares the river's nest.
A brilliant, rounded mind, the moon hones its truth.
Below the horizon, whales in convoy,
knowing what they know, are travelling north.