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The White Heron

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It was not the magical triangle of the river’s end

It was not the old poplar’s tranquilling whisper

Nor was it the bedlike bough bent

And not my wood nymph soul sister

 

It was not the wild horses’ mystical circle

Nor the black cormorants’ premonitory flapping

It was not the wise river’s silent advice

Not the northern air my thoughts unwrapping

 

Only the beautiful white heron, alone of all egrets,

More like a human, but pure and proud

So calmly revealed me the world’s and my own secrets…

 

How elegant white feathers, black beak, long and shrewd

How my heron’s shadowy, ever-accompanying absence

Dragged me out to bring me into another  pondering cloud…

 

© Georgia Panteli 2002

published in “The Beauty of Darkness”, International Library of Poetry, Owing Mills, 2002

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Written by Georgia

December 1, 2010 at 15:41

Posted in Poetry

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