Little Egrets in the Afternoon
Hot for late September, you and I stroll
by lazy Vartry River, canoers paddle smooth water.
Hues of Autumn touch the tree where Little Egrets
seem to blossom. We watch them fly, and laugh
at their comic yellow wellie-boots.
Lush purple berries flirt with us ‘come hither,
gorge on luscious fruit’. Ignoring nettles, scratchy thorns,
I plunge, brave and deep, into the blackberry bush.
You, not being a lover of such fruit, pick berries too,
and shaping your hands into a bowl, offer a ripe harvest
of jewelled amethysts which I accept with undiluted glee.
A flutter of white wings above us, the Egrets ride and reel
to honour our riparian feast beside the quietly flowing river.
St Malo and the Wren
My cloak I threw beside the vineyard wall
and toiled all day with rake and hoe,
an opportunist Wren saw her advantage
– a nest in the snug folds of my garment.
Being a holy man and a carer of creatures
I laboured a season without my cloak
watching my Wren bring to her nestlings
tasty grubs scratched from dry vineyard earth.
When the savage Mistral whined and raged
I believe this tiny bird rewarded
my sacrifice with a ruby harvest;
pannikins flowing to please the wedding guest.
Spring returns and vines sprout new growth
I thrill to see the strong young wrens
– but this Winter I will not shed my cloak.
Ignominy
Static like a sculptured rock
the Grey Heron watches her
strolling on damp sand.
She hopes for some communion
with this monolithic bird
but wearing an air of haughtiness
he ignores her presence
and rises, flapping slow and steady
to glide away with nonchalance.
