White Heron

Sun-bronzed and
denim-trendy,
the young and beautiful
swirl and settle
around the bar;
they are a flock of high-price birds,
predatory, voracious,
sharp as claws.
Their polished bills
spark and glisten in the light.

They clatter loudly,
and laugh at the edge
of harshness.


(This poem was written after a visit to the White Heron Travelodge in Christchurch, New Zealand. )