Heron

for Sheena

I come back to you again,

ocean-ankled, a long line

from leg to neck, a right

angle, half-pick head

all gaze and calculation

from black crest

                                                Dylan-doffed cap

                                                mid the briny bells

                                                of sea shells

                        to yellow spear.

Somewhere, out of my sight

there’s an eye, and, Picasso’d over face,

another, each rigid in bone circlets;

each admiring the tide’s lapping advance,

a twice-daily fish delivery system.

You notice me, and jut precedes stretch,

a deliberate step to firmer ground,

squat-thrust bounce into air,

and slow wing-beats,

                                                an old man

                                    shaking invisible rain

                                    from two stiff umbrellas.

It wasn’t you, but by the mill

another coasted out from

the stream’s tree line -

                                    nest-breaker,

                                    egg-scrambler,

                                    chick-gobbler.

It’s all true, not subject

to haughty denial,       which you don’t,

or dismissive flap. True too

that your home stinks

that you dismember frogs

and leave their quartered guts

and egg-masses by the pond-side

slaughterhouse,

that you kill heronry trees

with your toxic shit.

But I’m no judge        no-one can be, black cap or not.

Your feathers are grey variants, subtle -

no flashing gaudy plumes -

shading off, a mistless misting out

as a cloud unblues the sea.

I’ve seen you make

the perfect catch

                                    the stab, shake,

wash and swallow technique,

masterful. But not today; today

the water is cold, and the shoals

of silver-finned tinies are not running.

Spaced out, a family dysfunctions

along the Cove rocks

                                    barnacled limestone ribs

four hundred yards apart. The youngster

                                    skittish kid

takes less time to pause and ponder

than his ponderous parents

                                    moving with the fast crowd,

                                    noisy,

                                    between shriek and croak,

                                    fish-frightener,

but speed won’t last. Soon enough

he’ll signal, slow.

You are still, the perfect waiter;

long after I become impatient

stand, stretch, your cold stare

continues.

You were here when I arrived

but I see you go.

Left behind, in soft sand,

four long toe-tracks, the rear one

                                    offset.

Colin Will

26/04/04

Published in Sushi & Chips, Diehard Press, 2006