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Long Ago I Wrote a Poem Called ‘A Truth of Herons’


I am falling apart here. I am falling apart. Just over half an hour

ago I was crying into the sink. I won’t tell you why.

If I told you why you would ask me how old I was and I’d have to tell

you more. Explain myself. Unravel myself into understanding. It would not work.

I am still at the sink but my head no longer touches unwashed dishes.

There is the heron again on the rooftop. Sometimes I wish he was an eagle.

An osprey. A red kite. Sometimes I wish I would stop speaking.

Zipped up lips. Zipped shut. Sometimes I wish I was something simpler.

Something that if it fell apart could be reassembled. Not flat pack.

I mean something like society. Societies crumble. Societies fall.

Societies rise. There is the heron again. He is not an eagle.

He rises from the rooftop and flies towards the marshland.

Manmade marshland. He falls towards the marshland like an eagle onto prey.

He is gliding really. Gliding down. As he glides down and out of sight

he stays together. Hold it together. He does not fall apart. He cannot

fall apart. When I can no longer see the heron I imagine that he has fallen apart.

Beak from skull. Wings from body. Tail feathers scattered to the wind.

Out of sight he ceases to be a heron and cannot be reassembled.

The heron is not flat pack. I am not flat pack. I go back to the sink

and cry some more. When I’m finished crying I look for the heron

but there are no herons now. There are no eagles. No ospreys. No red kites.

 

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About michaeleganpoetry

Liverpool based poet and editor. I have had four pamphlets of poetry published, most recently After Stikklestad (Knives, Forks and Spoons Press, 2010). Penned in the Margins published my first collection, Steak & Stations, in 2010.

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