Human-Heron

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.