Poetry

Grey heron

Not so long ago, a step from the edge of things that must,
And the lists to make to go forward, I saw, one winter’s dusk,
As emotionless as Lego, a model of Father Time, a grey heron

Figured among the reeds, and reflecting on the brackish waters.
I thought I’d seen a put-me-there; broadcasting mottos
Of faded purpose for some outfit: a local schools’ project

To populate the marsh with a few deeds where the small creatures
That should scurry and shriek there were the abandoned drafts.
I looked again, and my tin-pot fancy had risen and flown away.

On such bright days as these I may see a bottle or a bag
Half-floating in the muddy stream, and convince myself
How I have surprised it.

Christopher Cuninghame