[northern hemisphere: 23.4 degrees obliquity, perihelion]
Black stroked full flaps down
Over uncast overcast naval greys,
Wingtip taps reflected wingtips
A parallel rhumb line rhythm flight
Ruled over inshore mirror water.
Pulling up in a clumsy prehistoric stall,
A drunken marine shorebound landing
Pitches the branches of this,
Their February isle.
Around again our orbit wheels
Past drear and dreich northern months,
Until anglers rewound cast again
From their wooden clinkers.
When longer days’ winds whistle
And fetch and chop and slop the surface.
And, filled with heat and hunger,
The cormorants quit to seek
From the deeper waters,
Of driven seas.