The Heron
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She climbs (disquiet) over statues and sandless shores
Below her, man meandering like lost boats without oars
Oh, the unsweetened taste of sorrow, who dares cross the line?
Anger clothed in bullets and silk--soft velvet crushed in wine
For all hunger craves a reason, left cold by cruel design
Four hundred years pining 'neath stones that stand benign
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She ponders of the moment--eight minutes then the hush
Where incendiary teardrops of pink and yellow gush
So passive the presumption, a life untimely crushed
Yet ends mark new beginnings, hope for each as much
New mornings of affection like the blooming of a seed
No fear then of rejection as wills outweigh the deed
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Her wings extend in perfection so fleeting shadows cast
Like the dew on morning petals, besotted to the last
Black or white...together, for pain need none belast
The quintessence of forever, unbridled of the past
She flips and dips a moment in wonder of the task
One people, one deliverance, how beautiful the ask
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She squints at sights beneath, as colours dance and weave
The healing of a nation, despite the northern breeze
She wonders of the future, how bright the chestnut trees
Where the sunset drags its fingers low on new earth it believes
Hovering thus, a moment, her wings expand...release
Diving now through mists below, towards that lasting peace
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...towards that lasting peace.

...towards that lasting peace





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This is written for all, not for the few or the many, but for all