The Mutton Birds sang this in 1994

An anchor inland from the bow of the harbour,
where I, far-flung from both nests,
tread the morning in the deep blue shadow of the bank.
Farther than I can see,
two pale gulls like can-tabs
met atop the hulls of a tree by Bolton.
I find their affections lashing
five full fathoms below the ducks’ green waves:
the white bells, the salvia for their late bloom,
the twang, swelling through the wind-grass,
quick back-beat footsteps,
              [unknowable as the shrill
              of the silver banshee
              that shrunk tongues 
              and husked two
              from the pools of their nacre]
a dragnet full of oysters,
the silken muck,
but they are all mine, 
you each insist.
They lift high up hill-crests, pearling,
and pull me down between the sides
—a heavy lichened zygote.

The birds, dubbed by their blunt ends,
had flown shorewards, parting over the spit.