To feed the dead who would come disguised as birds
– Czesław Miłosz
There were examples,
too many, the small people said. See, they
called, how things turn on each other
and a sleeping sickness leaks through
our language, how our Gypsy symbols spelled
no clear counsel.
O, travellers: to
ride by the river was death-wished, a flit
in the woods might end in a fight.
So what of the nightjar you were
seeking. It was the wrong time to listen,
that night hunting it.
Look, learn, sweet watcher.
There was ground to be prized in pitching here,
those small people said. The Sidh held
we had choices: the fish in this
river or the hares in those woods. Those woods,
through their white feathers,
are dark spruce. Christmas
pines, snow, one starved, star-chilled, eclipsed redbreast.
Take their bird’s disguise, traveller.
They have learnt thin paths to show you
their hidden way. It was strong of you to
stride out with your heart
heard, seeking counsel.
How could they counsel, they, the watching dead –
graft to you their will of stillness
when you were snared by that river,
those woods, by Red Guards returning to their
village for Christmas.