Heron Poem by David Coldwell

What prehistoric beast are you pretending to be?
Sat there in your perfect isolation amongst the bull rush
and sodden earth.

The sight of your eye - a blink - belies your cool look;
is it me you're looking at with that slight
nod of head; side to side, or some
unsuspecting perch, roach or stickleback
taking a flight of fancy, dancing, surfacing;
a flash of silver from where I'm sitting
before disappearing
into a black bottomless bath where
everything, including the kitchen sink
lies motionless, extinct.

Until the dog is on you; a charge, a shout
and you're up and running

like some Hanna-Barbera character
tripping over your self conscious style
until angel wings disclose kite, reaching out,
catching a breath that fails me, coughing,
barking, soaring. Pterodactyl!

Leaving the dog, the perch, the roach and
stickleback, alone in the sun charged sparks
that dance across the echoes of your
departure.