ROBERT ADAMSON reads "The Stone Curlew"

I am writing this inside the head
of a bush stone curlew,
we have been travelling for days
moving over the earth flying when
necessary. I am not the bird itself, only its
passenger
looking through its eyes.
The world rocks slightly as we move
over the stubble grass of the dunes,
at night shooting stars draw lines
across the velvet dark
as I hang in a sling of light
between the bird's nocturnal eyes.
The heavens make sense, seeing this way
makes me want to believe
words have meanings,
that Australia is no longer a wound
in the side of the earth.
I think of the white settlers
who compared the curlew's song
to the cries of women being strangled,
and remember the poets who wrote
anthropomorphically as I sing softly
from the jelly of the stone curlew's brain.
~
From "The Golden Bird: New and Selected Poems"

[@TitularHeroine]

I love his voice. And "....makes me want to believe that words have meanings" made me pay closer attention to what followed.