As the days draw out I spy a human-heron trying his patience and mine,
trying to persuade the wind by genuflecting before it on this sunny quite
late afternoon to lift this bird-man to be converted between the rugby posts
to get two points for the union code as if it a ritual or a qualification for this
bi-cameral being to float over this fen on the edge of their and our England.
A whisper of cloud is the only object to adorn or besmirch the winter blue
sky as it cops out of converting between the post, teases the reddish tall
trees and salutes the sunset on a horizon that it is said by foreigners from
elsewhere in England go mad as though adrift in a a of land that mimics
the North Sea horizon as two streaks of sunlight cross behind them in
warning at this creatures presumption as the human-heron stretches his
wide wings and lands in the inimitable determined and ungainly manner.
The next few days are not my mobile's as we are being celled by dirty
gloomy, cloudy, cold, snow flaked weather; weather that in Britain only
exists so that family, friends, neighbours, and strangers from near and
far can have something not too controversial to talk, moan about, and to
indulge in that pleasant pastime of agreeing that if the weather is good
to the human-heron and us we will have to pay for it even if it is only the
wrong choice wearing clothes over our human or human- heron selves.
Copyright © Peter Dorr