Another Heron Poem

[orange_fell]

Lake Rotoiti

Jenny Bornholdt

Grey herons
delicate
on the lawn

swans tipped
up, their red beaks
grazing weed.

Quickly, quickly
the grey rain comes
across the lake

then later, water
dark
under the black
hillside.

In the evenings
we listen for
the pianist's
breath, the click
of a cuff-button against
the saxophone.

Night was meant
for this
the taking of
one body into
another, the dark
cry.

Then, suddenly, the
body of morning
coming through
the door.

We'll take
the dinghy out
to the yellow buoy,
moor there, slip into
the dark lack
unsure of what's below but
chance it anyway, whatever
it is.