There has been a little flurry of herons going down to the river lately. 
If we are lucky, they seem to take a short cut  across
the sky, curving across the emptiness as if it’s a road already
marked out, then dropping down through the trees into the river.
They’re all magicians these lovely creatures that illuminate our
lives for when they appear, heron, rabbit, pheasant, fox,  whatever
presence they inhabit,  immediately they capture our full attention
and send us on our way full of joy and hope and love .

HERON FLYING HOME

There they all are, one after the other,
Herons going home.
Black shapes against a fading sky,
Beautiful and prehistoric,
None of them looking
At the shadowed trees below them.

Until one crashes the dark branches
To land in moon touched mud
At the side of the silent river.
Looking a bit like a witch

On a wicked broomstick,
Scratchy twigs sweeping
All the little creatures
Out of its imperious way.

Now the trees in the heronry
Are heavy with sleeping birds,
Each quietly contained,
All wrapped up in themselves.

The first stars pricking the sky,
The long dark fish in the water
Flashing a sudden brief silver,
Sharp eyes promising
To eat them in the morning.

Whilst, we, made of earth and sky,
Fold into the stars. 
Fold into the trees.
And, at the last,
Fold into the heron.

                                   © 2020 Gwen Grant