Leaving

by Susan Elsley

Here is the final cry
Of an old weary heron
Caught in the cleft
Of the split rock

Here is a winsome sparkle
Peaking from the gorm-black sky
On a haar-frost night
By the hill road
Here is the blow-by
Smell of budding pine
Hooching with fiery sparrows
At the slip of day

Here is the butter silk
Of crumpled sea storm fronds
Sneaking up on the bent grass
By the bleached tombola

And here, here is the last sigh,
A soft swither of a glance,
Then a pull on the door of the old place
And the sharp creak of leaving.