I won’t make a sound
when I walk by the reeds
and I will see the heron,
solitary fisher of quicksilver prey.
I will wait silent and still
for the darting bill
and the diamond drip of river water.
I will see the pearl grey plumes,
the silver flash of wriggling fish
and the dying ripples send a shiver
through the gently bending bulrushes.
While you pass too fast to see,
eyes fixed on a receding dot,
ears full of synthetic sound,
the smell of petrol and plastic in your head.
The world is slow and stealthy
down here in the mud,
beneath the sky and the shadow-pattern leaves.
Even the plunging hawk hovers
patient, until the moment comes.
The earth turns, the stars creep
from end to end of the sky
a night not long enough for them to pass.
Slow like maturing wine
and love
is how life…
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Viv Drewa - The Owl Lady 