The curlew flies the skies alone
She goes wherever she's inclined
Over stubbled field and heathered hill
In search of what there is to find

She plays her flute across the marsh
Her plaintive sound draws near, then fades
A straight and even course she steers
Towards the creek, to feed and wade

She whistles her notes across the dunes
The rising moon shines in her eye
In the greyness of the dusk, she calls
The couch grass whispers in reply

She pipes her tune across the moor
The wind blows soft in harmony
Into the gathering night she wings
She is alone and she is free