Cormorant

dedicated to the memory of Seamus Heaney

 

So often I have seen the S of the neck

the black majesty of its poise

steady on a post or other construct

the glossy outline affirming estuary’s flow

its inky darkness almost two dimensional,

rock-still, so that even though I stand and wait,

willing the cormorant to move,

it outwits me with its acceptance

of eddy and of tidal race, watching, watching…

 

How wise to know when to stretch and dry the wings

to catch the warm breeze or benefit from arctic chill,

to know the precise moment, the exact now

to open up into that vast span

profiling water’s surface in unhurried scoop

before flying entirely away, away,

leaving vast expanse of empty sky.