'I am but mad north-north-west. When the wind is southerly, I know a hawk from a handsaw.' Hamlet.
The night heron thought
she could hear the voices of things -
the violet of the riverwords,
the flint utterance of the moon,
and its rippled waterghost.
In stealth, creepfoot to creepfoot,
to tremble her weapon in the shallows -
the stones name it, and she waits
in bluff, fish baited with offerings -
bread, milkwhite, swells upon the surface,
until death speaks in edicts
as dark and thick as treacle.
Handsaw of morning dreams,
singer of imaginary songs;
unscreeched in another world,
propped on peninsular branches,
a swindler, troubled and untroubled,
she loves and sleeps like a poet.
Image is of a black-crowned heron from here: https://commons.m.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Black_Crowned_Night_Heron_(4578214020).jpg