GRANDMOTHER

In the low cloud perched upon the harbour I saw a heron. It had a silvery wriggling morsel in its beak and as it got closer to my balcony, aiming directly for me, I realised it couldn’t be. 

Walking from the bus to the office I saw a heron. Calmly bathing in the fountain with the seagulls until it began a slow-motion flight toward my face. It had a silvery morsel in its beak and this time I could see it was a miniature cutlassfish until I realised again it couldn’t be.

In the worn-off chalk lines of a protest rally I saw a heron. Its sharp eyes followed me as I passed and when I stopped to stare I remembered you.  I remembered Ōkārito lagoon and the kōtuku on the back of the $2 coin and the smell of sun-warmed rainforest. It couldn’t be.

In the swirls of surf at St Clair I see a heron.  It flies so low I can see its beautiful black feet catching foam, cutting little shelves into the collapsing waves, until it turns to me.

In the haze of the sea I see the heron pushing air past its body, shortening the gap between it and me, and this time I decide to receive. Through the mouth of my wide-open arms its yellow beak pierces my soul and my blood sings and my skin glows like heaven. Kōtuku. Is it you?