We are crowds of seabirds,
makers of many angles,
workers that unpick a web
of the air’s threads and tangles.

Pray for us when we fight
the wind one to one;
let not that shuddering strength
smash the cross of the wing-bone.

O God the featherer,
lift us if we fall;
preserve the frenzy in our mouths,
the yellow star in the eyeball.

Christ, make smooth the way
of a creature like a spirit
up from its perverse body
without weight or limit.

Holy ghost of heaven,
blow us clear of the  world,
give us the utmost of the air
to heave on and to hold.

Pray for us this weird
bare place—we are screaming
O sky count us not as nothing
O sea count us not as nothing