The Heron

We are flying, this summer's night
toward a brink, a wire-thin
rim of light. It swells,

then, as we descend,
illuminates the land enough
to let us name, by hill, or rivermouth,

each township below. This is
the North, where people, the world perhaps
likes to imagine,

hold a fish in one hand,
in the other: a candle.
I could settle for that. We shudder

and roll toward a standstill at the far end of the runway.
—It's not day, this light we've entered,
but day is present at the negotiation.

Gloaming—the sky holds
the still pale grey of a heron, watchful
among the tide-pools of the shore.

Copyright © 2002 Kathleen Jamie All rights reserved
from The Literary Review, Contemporary Scottish Writing issue
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission