Where sea breezes gust woodland leaves
 beneath a rookery of white birds
 a midden of whitewash, an empty page, broken eggs, white feathers,
 dead birds not yet fox food.

 Shattered shells are not broken pottery.
 There is no bravery or stupidity here.
 White feathers are just white feathers,
 birdshit fertilises roots.

 If no clarity to the folio of water
 when it hunts,
 with a blade for a beak,
 neck extended, the white bird
 walks slowly with frequent halts
 to stand, stir its feet in the mud,
 to inspire an image, a word,
 its prey to move.

 If no prey is seen
 it may stir again
 or move on

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