The poet tries to make the heron a god,
but the heron does not care. The heron
wades along the shore, a dark body
absorbing light, patience stopping time.
The poet makes sounds like prayer,
but the heron is merely annoyed, stepping
into the air and pulling with broad wings.
The poet carefully records a sacred text,
but the heron has found a hidden pool
among the small trees and stands there
all day, staring coldly into the water,
far from the songs, from the blood,
from all the voices that beg for mercy.
Published in The Boatloads (2008)
Published: 24 November 2008
© 2008 Dan Albergotti and Southern Spaces