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.
