Antique Wisdom
The Heron
Liam Ó Muirthile
The heron, stock-still,
is her own bird image
in the water.
The surface doubles her patience,
a gift, presented to us
for nothing.
Startled by an abrupt sound
her neck erupts upright,
totally alert.
She swoops back into her upright self again,
brimming with her own depth,
staring.
She stands perfectly fixed.
If she stirred she’d slip
outside her form.
They’re all the one. She peers through
her own bird’s eye view, clear
to the bedrock.
Tide in tide out
she scoops a beak full with a grin
of antique wisdom.
Liam Ó Muirthile
The heron, stock-still,
is her own bird image
in the water.
The surface doubles her patience,
a gift, presented to us
for nothing.
Startled by an abrupt sound
her neck erupts upright,
totally alert.
She swoops back into her upright self again,
brimming with her own depth,
staring.
She stands perfectly fixed.
If she stirred she’d slip
outside her form.
They’re all the one. She peers through
her own bird’s eye view, clear
to the bedrock.
Tide in tide out
she scoops a beak full with a grin
of antique wisdom.