In Wales they used to fear my call

like the sight of a magpie

or the sound of an afternoon cock crow.


I can’t imagine why they call me gylfinir

there, for it sounds nothing like

the noise I make, cur-lee.


Now they dread the thought

of my demise, rejoice

at my return to the Yorkshire Dales.


Some think my name means running, 

which I never do at all. My beak

catches worms as chopsticks do noodles,


or a pair of tweezers pulls out

an unwanted hair, which when closed

it could be said to resemble. Curved.



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