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.
Am I a heron?!?
Love the photo of the heron, all hunched over
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!
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!
No problem, really pleased that you liked them.