HERON ON THE WYE

I glimpsed it against newly green leaves

of the riverside trees as it rose

from the rapids where streams rushed

but wings lifted it slowly away -

a silver-grey arrow in slow motion

piercing the air as it rose and then

dipped out of sight so that a part

of me fell out of the sky with it

into the wet meadows of the

mountain Wye and was lost so that

I walked on as if I had not seen it

engrossed with my humanness in a dream

of urbanity that knew no heron and

no heron knew, except that something

remained and is here in these words.