An Chorr Réisc

THE HERON
The heron, stock-still,
is her own bird image
in the water.

The surface doubles her patience,
a gift, presented to us 
for nothing.

Startled by an abrupt sound
her neck erupts upright,
totally alert.

She swoops back into her upright self again,
brimming with her own depth,
staring.

She stands perfectly fixed.  
If she stirred she’d slip
outside her form. 

They’re all the one. She peers through
her own bird’s eye view, clear 
to the bedrock.

Tide in tide out
she scoops a beak full with a grin
of antique wisdom Liam Ó Muirtile.