When I see the herons fly
Outside your window, then I think
Of iridescent days, and waiting for
The night to fall.
As the birds array in height
Across the golden levels of the mount,
Their bodies in bewitching foreign light
It’s you I feel.
Before your father’s crystal bells would chime
And call me in my tatters to the well,
You clothed me in the glory of your breath
And made me real.
When I watch the birds, I think
Of you and how I had to fly
Because I am a slave, and you a man
And that is all.
© 2009 rosie schriever
“highly commended” in scribbligum poetry competition, section “gumblossoms” 2009
