The crimson legs of storks stream out
as they fly in
from Sinai to Gabel El Zeit.
Imperial red wanes,
occupation just a cheap trick.
Guano. The stork does not like her nest
colonised, her feet thrash and kick,
demand some self-determination.
Regime change, history's tendency
in our own time fifty years hence.
The valve house remains,
its Egyptian style of dressed stone
leans towards a non—
existent stand of acacia;
the stork's favourite nesting site.
Here, beside six
hundred and thirty three
million gallons of drinking water
the Scots Pine falters,
bent by wind that brings geese
home from their long flight south.
by much grooming of feathers.
Each time I practise stork cools wings
I'm fanned by thermals from the Red Sea,
drop beak: needle to sea bottom.