It’s as if these hills hold a second sight The sycamores when still and silent Ghostly white and they weep for the empty rookery
The heron Just as pale and blue Stand an apparition on the banks Lonely for the colony and its need He is smoke to my water The current moves me through his gaze Holds me there through the bend And then I drift beyond it
He remains like my history And its fog of memory To keep the edge To eye the flow Dig capable whistled leg Into pale hues of fossils And time placed compression Impressions of my used to be
The prowlers with yellow eyes Curve and sweep The startling screech Cries fear Into the calm of all this Beauty But often eerie And foreshadowing quiet Brushy tails shiver my good sense
I will go to the river And strip down to nothing But the peach of me And the wonder in my regard Of all of this And its spiritual entry into my being Dive in and feel my soul float Out of the cool caress of my skin
The night and its moon Will color me an ******* But pale mood To suit the atmosphere And its esoteric tastes I will be a mystic here And chant my name to the stars