August, and I have yet to see
A heron at the harbour
Here, tall and still in the shallows.
It’s all crows and herring gulls
On the pebbles and broken shells
Sloping down to the mud flats,
Watching the clockwork tide slowly
Conceal ancient mussel beds.
Daily, daily, for us too, tides
Roll in and out, in and out,
Over the clusterfuck darkness
Underlying all. What has
Shifted in the blue heron’s heart
Lies, restless, uncertain, in ours.