Herons were always here. The one we saw
on the day we moved in seemed an omen.
We named the house for it, wanted to warn
the postman: Beware of the Heron.

One gangled often up into the air
off the dyke opposite, a sack of sticks,
almost forgetting its legs, doomed
to crash but finding grace with distance.

Gods need distance. This one stumbled up
from that dyke with one wing pointing
the wrong way. Tried to fly. Fell. Ran away
across the field like a frightened child.

For days it skulked in the waterways,
one step ahead of the fox, wing upraised
to ward off the enormous rebuke of sky,
the brightness it had fallen from.

It drew blood when the wildlife ranger
trapped it, folding its gorgeous plumage
in a blanket. He rebroke the wing, set it.
It could have flown, but wouldn’t. Starved.

To the ground we returned the rainfall
of wing, stained glass eye, closed vowel
of stomach. Stiff with pride and denial;
the dried up ingredients of grace.