The Parish Church of St John-at-Hampstead

Twisting the burning day
to an arc of wing,
bending with leaflong,
sinewy, sunlit trees,
the long necks
writhed and turned
to unheard tunes and rhythms.

We saw them dance
their graceful, passionate
pas de deux,
a king and queen
of courtship, elegant
as a pavane,
wild as bacchantes,
feathers traced in steel
on the remembering air.

And then, fastidious feet
marking the beat on grass
with leap, with pause,
till, incongruous,
crying and calling,
their beaks pointed upwards,
crowns coloured and erect,
they screamed a dancer’s bow,
a shrill, high, raucous
paean of accomplishment.