Bank Holiday Poem

 The Heron

On the rough river that runs behind

the house I live in now

a  blue heron stalks.

He works without movement, one-legged, listening

master of balance, quick on the draw.

Don’t look him in the eye  my daughter

says, freckles across her nose.  He’ll swoop!

I wonder how she judged his gender.

She is already leaving me.

The bird attacks

drilling down in the muck piercing

the head of a small silver fish,

muddying the water with red blood.

Herons like things that glitter, she says.

Which of them does not?

I hold her hand tightly.

It’s time for bed.

That evening the heron has gone.

Water now fills the place where he stood.

All that is left of the battle is this:

Bloodied scales beneath the current

the silence that surrounds me

things our child is too young to know.

You loved me once like that: stoic, ruthless.

Eyes on the glittering prize.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: