Sun-stunned the water; trees hold their breath.
The bracken smell is six foot deep
And never stirs. I feel green crumbs of heather
Crawling on cheekbones … Stillness but not sleep.
A heron, folded round himself,
Stands in the ebb, as I in mine.
I feel my world beneath me, like his, shelving
To darker depths of dark and bitter brine.
Suddenly round the cliff face bolt
Pigeon and falcon–they tear the air
And are gone in it. And the day stands, without motion,
As though nothing had drawn that savage blue stroke there.
What has been wounded? Only false
Images. Nothing can betray
Wise heron, shattering light or breathless alder
Or water slipping soundlessly away.