To be a homeward heron is to hunch your weary neck into a
feathered quiet,
lay down upon the dusk your stretched imaginings
and journey to the west;
to let your gaunt legs trail upon a slipstream of
contentment,
to lodge your idle breast upon the thrusting air
and lazy row your wings against the night,
to set your constant compass for the tree beyond the sight
and sink the sun.
To be a homeward heron is to know the fish lie safely,
belly-deep;
to ease the ache-legged burden of the watch, the stand; the
angled eye;
in shadow now, the spearing hunger sleeps.
To be a homeward heron is to follow as in dream
the turgid thread, the flow, the glinting waters and the
deeps;
the muddied coverts of the roach and frog,
the girdled reeds, the weeds in constant dip and dance.
To be a homeward heron is to covenant with peace across the
sky.
