The heron
The heron glide in on flannelmist dawn;
under the snout of darkness they whisper their contumacy.
By the sun they are camped in the breaking frost.
Unlike the ibis, that quizzical apothecary's clerk,
or the wistful moorhen,
the heron do not deign to linger, or to ask.
But raid moist soil, dead dams and trunks;
organise sentries, feed and shit and leave,
scribing their pendant traceries against the sky
with legs as comical as bent coathangers.
Caleb Cluff
Majorca, Victoria
14/06/06
==============================================================================
The information contained in this email and any attachment is confidential and
may contain legally privileged or copyright material. It is intended only for
the use of the addressee(s). If you are not the intended recipient of this
email, you are not permitted to disseminate, distribute or copy this email or
any attachments. If you have received this message in error, please notify the
sender immediately and delete this email from your system. The ABC does not
represent or warrant that this transmission is secure or virus free. Before
opening any attachment you should check for viruses. The ABC's liability is
limited to resupplying any email and attachments
==============================================================================
|