Take Skywards As Wings-Are-Meant Poem by Mark Heathcote

Her eggs are round, white as snow
one, that's been thrown and is now,
quite-imbedded with black-stone
not-round as a honeycomb,
infamously, hard to see
she could be a sedge-land-bee
chasing insects, eat chaff seed,
nesting beneath-the-bindweed
yes, leave the flowers-be.
Male sings, before the moonlight
soaking up drowsy sunlight
till it whispers in wheatear.
it's now time to leave mid-air
find someplace fairer—avail
come-away ground-hugging, quail.
there's more my heart can-lament
take skywards as wings-are-meant.