(for Annette Marron)
A bird you rarely hear described as beautiful,
clumsy sometimes on landing, grey as slate;
the passing eye sweeps over it. And yet
something 'bout it never fails to move me:
the quality of being on edge in stillness;
its wholeness; the way its melancholy eye
is fixed on something no one else can see.
It carries within itself an elegance
I'd noticed years before but couldn't place
until I saw you: that unconscious grace
you've carried all this time, the quiet restless thought;
all came back to me then. You have it still,
the balance of a heron poised for flight.
Ted Mc Carthy
If you have any comments on this poem, Ted Mc Carthy would be
pleased to hear from you.