Curving as the bird’s eye sees,
Curves from the side.
A turning vane.
A breeze of passing,
A quiet but clear whoosh from flow.
Curling as the bird’s eye sees,
Curling as I turn,
Circles within circles,
A natural arc shows it’s golden beauty.
A nautilus I’ve become,
All swirled up.
The time comes to uncoil,
But the whoosh continues.
It’s not my skirt as we go past you,
Because we’re whirring and whooshing inside.
The coil starts an uncoil
And the uncoil starts a coil
And so the turning goes
But all the bird sees is curves and curls
And all you see is a golden giro.