The Seventh Whistler (after William Wordsworth) By slough and marsh my dog commits to muck and fun on coastal walk swathed on our way through rugged fields in Cumberland’s old mizzled cloak. Until a statue he became, as through sea mist the air was split with ghostly cry from unlit worlds: the seventh whistler on the breeze. A whimbrel lost in search of kin; six others scattered ‘cross the veil with messages that once combined could cast a shadow over...
