Poem by the Danish poet Thorkild Bjørnvig

The grebe

With the perfect curve of the neck,

the beak’s slender lance

it points at me, swaying

and follows, as if it would dance,

the smallest of my movements,

elegant, fine and alert –

but its body is that of a penguin,

held upright, passive, inert.

It does not fly as expected –

on its breast a stain of oil

has insinuated itself,

has sapped its power and spoilt

its desire to call, to mate and breed,

to swim, to fly and dive,

to hunt, to catch, devour –

its joy at being alive;

has struck like a deadly disease:

a drop, a germ that’s afloat,

and the mineral leprosy

glues feathers to sticky coat.

Reduced to just jetsam

midst planks and cans in the sand,

no use at all, unable to fish

dropped by water, air and land,

on its way down to life-cycle’s Hades:

each slowly dwindling thing –

it watches my moves intently

as around it I walk in a ring.

Sick little deity,

lost on the lonesome expanses,

nature, the mighty has never as yet

brooked impairment’s nuances

from perfection down to pure

obliteration; – no plight

that from wild beasts does not dictate

reasserted power or death outright.

Which is why I will not try in vain

to clean your body of slick,

for you would defend your last rest

with wild fear, were I to pick

you up as if you should live. No,

tonight’s moon’s a more intimate friend

and the clouds, the sky and what

you so calmly await as your end.

And you will sink down: your last

perfect movement – leaving no trace,

lie outstretched a shapeless form

in this fortuitous place.