My hero, the heron

He hath no hurry, no haste
heron wastes not an air, not a grace
upon ways that hasten Hell’s helion
His calm his rebellion
Dwelling not upon swelling throng
that raves and rants in droves

His face split, North/South antipodes
eroded to expose narrow black marking
Stark line interrupting overarching refinement
of otherwise flawless facade

He stands noble, battle scarred
Not hardened of heart,
open to new ventures, fresh starts
Startled by the Larkin’s sparkling song
he hops along to a place free of magpies

His flag flies inside magnanimous eyes
Wherever he utters his battlecries
is wherever he feels free to live without disguise
Blackened ocular arrow eschews harrow for reprise

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