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.
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.
