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Margin
The sun will rise like a golden fish
over the far bank,
but for now
a cobwebbed sky
clings to the curling water.
This is the margin
where dawn issues
through nights last gleam
in ghostly drifts.
The dewy daylight arrives
a veiled lace flecked with gold.
Reeds rustle, stir a dark mud
into green ripples.
Dragonflies climb stems
to dry damp wings.
A standing heron appears,
its eyes are star-bright.
Mallards and Coots,
pluck mist from their plumage.
The day floods up
to paint itself
beneath high flying feathers
the hunter waits, gun at the ready,
but he will miss,
for the margin has hidden his aim
and it always will
in such magic moments.
Copyright ©
Eric Ashford
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