Rain is crossing the estuary from the west

in impenetrable shrouds of grey.

Not far from the old quay, against dark reeds,

a Great Egret is poised – its whiteness statuesque,

its yellow beak ominously bright in the gloom.

As we leave for home in a stygian downpour,

windscreen wipers keeping time, the bird,

which we first saw on the Nile, and now here

near the Irish Sea, is still luminous.

How far we have travelled in thirty years –

some of us on wingbeats across seas;

some of us mostly in our heads and hearts!

As I write a Wood Pigeon is fluting

in the chimney – its short, sad roundelay

wistful, hinting at at least one more spring.