Kenneth Steven watches the annual rite of grey geese returning from Iceland to their winter quarters, and reflects on the compass in their souls. His poem comes from the lively anthology, Wonder: The Natural History Museum Book, contents chosen by Ana Sampson (Macmillan, 2021, £14.99).

LESLEY DUNCAN

 

GREY GEESE

All night they flew over in skeins.

I heard their wrangling far away

Went out once to look for them, long after midnight.

Saw them silvered by the moonlight, like waves,

Flagging south, jagged and tired,

Across the sleeping farms and the autumn rivers

To the late fields of autumn.

Even in a city I have heard them

Their noise like the rusty wheel of a bicycle;

I have looked up from among the drum of engines

To find them in the sky

A broken arrowhead turning south

Heading for home.

The Iceland summer, the long light

Has run like rivers through their wings,

Strengthened the sinews of their flight

Over the whole ocean, till at last they circle,

Straggle down on the chosen runway of their field.

They come back

To the same place, the same day, without fail;

Precision instruments, a compass

Somewhere deep in their souls.