We heard them long before we saw 

the squabblers hove into view one night, 

white bellied geese, lit from below, and flying 

tired – barely above the orange streetlights, 

following the coast road, the path 

of the moon sparkling frost on the sea, some innate 

scent of direction in the flock, argued routes

and shorelines, like us, stopped on the street 

just as they paraded overhead, transporting 

us someway to fairytale, we watched them turn 

and commit, wayfinding at last.  As they faded 

from view we read the map over again, 

and we too, committed once more to the path. 

Header Image Credit: Polly Pullar