There's our heron under those wanton trees.
Being led astray, no doubt, gossiping
past sky and water, the intricacies
of wings and roots. I can't hear it, of course.
The river's chuckling harshly, irritated.
This window frames the scene, pocked by raindrops
I'm too afraid to reach out and wash off.
Spiders cavort knowingly, confident
that my lapses in housekeeping promise
safety. They're right. Their silks are brighter than
my pyjamas and less clumsy. Kettle
re-boiled and I cut through steam with the
blade of my hand, repeating willingly
to keep worse things at a hubbub, not growl..
My kitchen floor has travelled past cold, now
clammy as a fever and likely as
delirious. A tail, throat: our heron
begins the process of swallowing, and
once again so arrogantly faultless.
Betsie Flynn is a Kentish transplant to the Brecon Beacons where she lives with her husband, children, and cats. She doesn't do well in direct sunlight, but loves garlic (so all signs don't point to vampire). Her words are forthcoming or appearing in a few places, including The Odd Magazine, Ample Remains, and Anser Journal.