On Cnoc na Forsaich

by George Gunn

When the south wind blows warm
with French & Spanish air
cliffs & firths & headlands
light up russet & ochre
in the April Sun
the sea bleeds blue into her native green
the ploughed & the breather fields
shine from the shochad’s song
as it whistles with a dropping twist 
of black & white feathers
the lilting curlew covers
the bog & the croft land
with her lonely welcome
these birds assemble memories
as if from nowhere
creating somewhere out of sound
staking their being on this hill
each beat & rhythm
proving if proof is needed 
that instinct is thinking
& the universe is singing
of the unfinished world