The Ancient Lark

On bright and blustery summer days
of childhood, I would often walk
along the path that led from Sandy Gap,
past caravans, fields and golf links, to West Shore.
To my left, the stony beach sloped down
to rock pools, and beyond, a great expanse
of bright, exhilarating sand, and then
the blinding, glittering Irish Sea.
To my right, rough grasses and a far skyline
of shipyard cranes and neatly-planned estates.
Here, by the links, I’d stop to hear a sound,
the endless trill and chatter of a lark.
No pause for breath, no moments of self-doubt,
the lark’s bright song defined that place
as much as shapes and colours.
Then I would look up and search
the squinting, eye-hurting blue
until I saw the tiny silhouette,
fluttering madly, clinging to the air
in one, still spot, so high above the ground.
As I resumed my walk,
the bird’s song faded and was lost
amid the rustle of the wind-tossed grass.
And every year, each time I took that walk
the lark was there, aloft and singing still
with tireless, undiminished power. 

Now, living far away,
I still go back from time to time
to hear that song.
What is the lifespan of a bird? I cannot say,
but the lark above the golf links near West Shore
has sung to me for fifty years at least,
and will be singing still when I am gone.