Listening.

I stand like a heron in the shallows
The cold water lapping my legs;
The breeze rattles the reeds
And the leaves mutter
Of summer spent.
I hear the moon
Sliding from grey cloud
Stars cutting through space
And the murmur
Of planets whispering
Like silk.

I listen to the bittern steal
Through the muddy water
Like a pilgrim, the moon
Now painting the water
With cold fire and old mythology.
I hear the crunch of pebbles
And flint as the fishermen
Take to their boats,
And the sea kissing
The shingle with song.

Then come the ghosts
With their hollow renderings
Their pointing fingers, and
The floorboards creaking;
The axe of man hacking through
Our forests, the plough
Scaring the land red.

I listen to the starlings
Sweeping in like a dark cloud
And the clatter of geese
Spilling from the north
Like a pack of baying hounds.
Then silence and the dream spent.
The sleeping water slick and dark
With abandoned summer dreaming.