Monday, 22 September 2008


The pale dawn rises frenetic with congregating voices of geese out on the island. Their furious black fussing shades the mirror lake - inky scribbles from a tormented hand. Gathering here all week, this same week of every year, they unsettle the dog, make him tread too close.

Today is the day. The tension is a swaying aeolian harp, humming taut like a stretched and twisted wire. The dog's eyes are caught over his flinched shoulder. He is poised contorted, like the birds, for that strange feral signal. 

In a flood like a ragged fuming breathing cloud, they suddenly rise, jubilant with cries sung out of time, lifting over the black wicker of the chestnut wood and the remnants of it's burnt orange skyfire. The dog bursts out, full voiced, regains it's true shape in the splash and bravado of flying into the mere after them, snorting as if to expel their enemy scent from his nose. They circle high, to find the pull of the South.
The trumpeting fades distant. Scrawled v shapes fade and settle into signature beats, pulsing them across a sea and a far continent.