Hickling Broad

"Look, a coral-gutted loner bird!
I said, at some show-off twig-legged prancer.
You missed it and the words I chanced
were little recompense.

I am familiar with the effort: coils of teal,
a baddling of ducks, a pheasant bouquet
but its algebras, not alphabets, that make
most sense in this albino light.

Balance beaming along slatted boardwalks
to the stilted lookout tower, we wait for flocks
to frank their approval on envelopes of sky.
Honey buzzards, curlews, a leash of darters:

the argot of desperate spotters
as they try to tongue-trap these fractal moments
of screen-saver madness, enigmatic sparrow-tails
happen to create the face of your old English teacher.

You look to the sky for confirmation:
it is self-absorbed, hunting for pigment.
You turn to the reeds, at least they deign
to lean in agreement, italicised by the wind.