For a split second, the sky cracks open
And a ghostly motionless scene
Appears strangely before my eyes.
Trees bent out of shape, leaves in mid-air
And as this view starts to fade to black
The low rumbling builds to a gut-gripping,
Echoing cacophony.
Then I can see nothing, and as a thousand
Horse-hooves gallop away into the distance
The shrill whistling of yet more thousands
Of fluttering leaves becomes audible
And the shadowy shapes of tree-tops
Swaying in the wind become visible.
Between the trees a white winged form
Dives and rises, clutching its terrified, blinking prey.
The ability to see by the faintest light
In the midst of darkness
Is the gift of the Owl,
To see great distances in the minutest detail
Is the gift of the Eagle,
To see more colours than even exist in the Rainbow
Is the gift of the Bee,
To see and anticipate every movement made
Is the gift of the Hawk,
To see without eyes, by hearing alone
Is the gift of the Bat,
And what is the gift of the Crow or Raven?
To see through water as if it was not even there
Is the gift of the Heron.
And the Heron sulks sullenly
For he receives no thanks
From all those to whom
His gift is also given.
For they know it not
And they do not seem to realise
That without his gift
And the gift of clear water,
Which he seeks for endlessly,
They would not see at all.