A Heron And Me
Her sharp eye detects my presence,
a blink the only movement
in the dawn-still pond.
Delicately sculptured, aristocratic,
camouflaged by cloak of sky-grey plumage,
the heron has, ‘till now, stood undisturbed.
Knowing I am there, she beckons,
scooping air with flight, drawing my eye
to gulls gathered on compact sand, wintry damp,
where languid waves struggle to make an impact.
I follow as she stretches above a sheltered garden,
where a robin enquires and great tits flit.
Then she flies to where I cannot see.
Sometimes she returns, takes me on another journey.
Beyond all cares, I see what she sees.
Provence, 24th May, 2016
Carefully held in Minerva’s embrace,
Roman monuments refuse to fade
in this city of Arles.
Small streets and shuttered houses,
packed tight, add colour,
as plants that flower and climb
celebrate where Van Gogh ran life through canvas.
Beyond, white horses and bulls of the Camargue
hold their history.
Rice, wheat and fruits will grow
as flamingos flash pink towards St Marie de la Mer.
Here, on sand bleached by heat,
the sea’s own horses rush to greet horse backed riders,
a procession carrying St Sara,
patron saint of gypsies.
Pilgrims, horses, wooden effigy,
all enter the water
from which she once arrived by boat.