Human-Heron

Written by: Peter Dorr

                      
         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.