A dare poem.

The Heron

Down the boot strewn stairs 

behind the usual melee of dogs eager to exit 

falling over the stuff we would have in our porch 
if we had a porch.

We spew out into the late Sunday afternoon.

A single welly bumps all the way down to rest on the last stair.

The air is cool and fresh

ahead the dogs run 

scampering wildly, guessing which way we will go.

I have nothing left in me.

Answered, nurtured, argued, 

reassured, explained.

Spent.

I am done.

Undone.

A walking piece of taxidermy.

I have a mother’s skin. 

Insides stuffed with love and should and need to, 

guilt, more love,

held in with coping, 

bound with responsibilty.

Colours faded like butterfly dust,

music on mute.

My stitches are pulling.

I need to remember what used to be inside.

Breathe out.

Breathe in.

Breathe out...

I walk along the leat

rich guinness brown

churning

swirling fast

rushing to join the river again,

leaves circling, surfacing,

diving.

The left over rain 

tap

tap 

taps the leaves. 

Bouncing droplets.

Washed clean, the green beechwood glistens in the new sun.

Suddenly a heron rises from the river.

Pulling itself upward with a slow hard won grace

It seems huge, this creature.

It has nothing to do with me.

It is awesome and free.

It is wild.

Unbidden into my head 

hysterical laughing relief, all I can think is

Thank fuck, I don’t have to feed the heron.