Heron, hunch-backed,
Drab chapel-grey,
Bedraggled loner,
Still as a statue
On guard, staring
Away and stood
In a calmness
Perfected since birth.

 
What is a moment
In unbothered composure?
The ridiculous legs,
The ungainly posture,
The dagger of a beak
Too big for its head,
A bit of a tramp,
A second-hand bird.

 
Yet the flap into flight
Becomes an expert glide,
A serious focus,
A hunting ride,
A visual beauty
Snapped by the tourists,
As his wide wings seem
To dream across

 
His stretch of heaven.

Peter Thabit Jones © 2022


Published in GARDEN OF CLOUDS/NEW AND SELECTED POEMS by Peter Thabit Jones, 2020