Migration is a flock of birds
who leave the last shrill calls of summer
leave the trees and nests
that cupped them like a hand
while they waited for their hearts
to grow big enough to fit
the whole world in. Their wings
sing of a bright new future.
They pass the sound of the sky
feather to feather, beak to beak.
But wherever they land, far away
in the winter that glows gold,
somewhere, back there,
the prints their tiny feet
left behind are still etched.
They are waiting
for the ghost of a bird
to brush the ground.

COMPAS Schools Poetry Competition 2013
First Place