They say the gairfowl would break
through the ice of the northern seas –
its spear like a pick hacking
at the frozen celeste and turquoise –
in search of lumpsuckers and sandlances,
its stunted wings propelling it
through the crystals of polelight
that would grow on its pelt,
and that the ice closed over the auk,
which dived and swerved
like an atom in its clinamen
or an angel mid-fall
as the crust grew thicker and thicker.
Under the ice you can still hear
the crackle of a thousand beaks.

One day I will go hunting with rod,
hook and dynamite. I would like
to get my hands on the fishbird
and share its bones far and wide –
with the Met, the Kelvingrove –
sell the egg from its womb
for a small fortune,
and fill its skin with sand:
to anchor it in the here and now,
to arrest the gurgle in its throat.