I am heron,

Last of the lonely fisherfolk clan,

Wrestling breath and existence

At December-Edge Lake.

Needs must when

Winter-king rules;

So I will take

Frogs from frozen mud,

Cold-killed cadaver from bog ditch graves,

Maggots from fieldside muck-heap

And warmth from memory cells –

And shun your hypocrite charity.

My hopes and words I store

Between stare-down-the-Devil eyes,

Behind decision sharp weapon bill

Beneath my fog-toned feather cape.

They are mine, not yours,

Seek them not.

I seek no camouflage for

Past, ruthless savagery –

That stranded me here –

Fossil in all but fact –

Pale target for avaricious

Cowardly mobs of

Bright-urchin gulls.

Denying the truth

Destroys the soul

As sure as sin

And damages any future

I may hope to have.


5 thoughts on “Heron

  1. Love the photo of the heron, all hunched over

    • beeseeker says:

      Thanks, the poem came together while I was out for a damp December walk- we saw a single heron that flew out from the reeds ahead of us … and landed a little further along, and had to do this several times, until he/she could return around the lake to where he/she had been to begin with. Striking birds, but somehow unsettling too!

  2. Such a compelling and poem with so much depth. One of those poems that could be talked about for hours in poetry class.

    The capture of the heron has such wonderful mood. Beautifully captured as well. Thanks for sharing these with me!

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