The curlew flies the skies alone She goes wherever she's inclined Over stubbled field and heathered hill In search of what there is to find She plays her flute across the marsh Her plaintive sound draws near, then fades A straight and even course she steers Towards the creek to feed and wade She whistles her notes across the dunes The rising moon shines in her eye In the greyness of the dusk, she calls The couch grass whispers in reply She pipes her tune across the moor The wind blows soft in harmony Into the gathering night she wings She is alone and she is free