The Heron

In the waning glare of declining Sun

Trudging past the compost

A steamy damp pile of ewe-trodden straw from the lambing pens

We try to avoid the deeper tyre ruts still filled with black water from Thursday’s storm showers

You catch your breath and touch my arm “Look!” you whisper

We freeze in the moment as he does too

This huge bird of the wetlands, now stood in the field

Long, yellow beak angled toward the horizon

His lines and colours enriched in the sunset glow

His stillness is not calm, he calculates risk

Eyes and hearing alerted by our approach

When we stop, he assesses

Then decides our stillness is suspicious too

He unfolds his great grey wings

Flexes his knees and springs into the air

Turning up and right over the tree-lined stream

In silent, slow wafting flight

.

CLP 12/05/2019