Nine Herons

 

by Rob Mooney

 

Email: rm014a8903@blueyonder.co.uk

 

Lilies are opening in your mother's house

Grey in the early morning filling

The front room with their scent but

We don't know how long they will last

 

When you were wee these December blusters

Flung your arms around like Raggedy Andy

And you had to watch the bare thorn trees'

Branches scrabbing gusty in the blow but they

Could never catch you

 

I went down off the edges today by the water

Shooting whitely in the sluices and

The ivy tendrils snapping at my hood

With tears springing under the slap of sleet

And because I cannot help you

 

The stoic ponies stand in their flooded meadow

Luckily their legs still reach down to the bottom

The moon is up already spilling like a tipped

Cup above the bank where nine herons are

Standing in the rain

 

Back at the old house the shafts of desire

Have long been unloosed, we emptied the quiver

Putting out panes and punching holes in

The plasterboard and now that bow will

Not be strung again

 

It's a pity of your skewbald weans screeching

In their flumes of blood where the front door

Steps have broken under you at the new house

Of your dream. They were mixed of heats and

Ghost and now that they will not come to us

What can we hope for?

 

 ©2003 Rob Mooney

 

Rob would love to hear what you think of his poem - email him now

 

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