Dapper in a topcoat and tails, feet moving fast and graceful as birds skimming still waters, he whirled and swooped, catching my mother, still young and slim, by the waist, bending her backward. She ... [+]
Steve Denehan lives in Kildare, Ireland with his wife Eimear and daughter Robin. He is the author of two chapbooks and three poetry collections. Winner of the Anthony Cronin Poetry Award and twice winner of Irish Times' New Irish Writing, his numerous publication credits include Poetry Ireland Review and Westerly. "The Heron" is in Short Circuit #09, Short Édition's quarterly review.
I look out the car window
across night fields
squinting; I can see
lives I never lived
I drive on, into the village,
into the rain
a traffic light turns red;
I see Picasso-people
walking in the raindrops
running down the window
the crescent moon is thin
a fingernail clipping
pointless, almost;
there are no stars
a canal-bank heron becomes illuminated
by the headlights
as I pass;
I wonder why
it is not afraid
across night fields
squinting; I can see
lives I never lived
I drive on, into the village,
into the rain
a traffic light turns red;
I see Picasso-people
walking in the raindrops
running down the window
the crescent moon is thin
a fingernail clipping
pointless, almost;
there are no stars
a canal-bank heron becomes illuminated
by the headlights
as I pass;
I wonder why
it is not afraid