A Heron Flies Overhead by Mike Jenkins

In the scatterings of the year
the clothes will not take flight,
twigs and leaves do not stir
and the moor fades out of sight.

A tree-creeper scurries against gravity,
two jays are flowers of the air,
the geese snake water thirstily,
magpies are always asking 'Where?'

A heron flies overhead with calm
and rhythmic pulsing of the wings,
towards the west it charms
my senses with its rare passing.

It seems now like a prophecy:
what will happen when streams have gone?
Diggers will treat the mountain ruthlessly,
fumes and dust consume the songs.


by Mike Jenkins
from Red Landscapes

Additional information: Mike Jenkins (born 1953) is a Welsh poet, story writer and novelist writing in English. He taught English at Radyr Comprehensive School in Cardiff for nearly a decade and Penydre High School, Gurnos, Merthyr Tydfil, for some two decades before that. At the end of the 2008–2009 academic year Jenkins took voluntary redundancy. He now writes full-time, capitalising on experiences gleaned from former pupils. He continues to live in Merthyr Tydfil, and has done so for over 30 years. He is also the father of Plaid Cymru politician Bethan Jenkins and journalist Ciaran Jenkins.

On My Walk Home…

On my walk home…

I saw two men dressed in the colours of Mario and Luigi…
On my walk home…
I smelled burning and knew it was Autumn…
On my walk home…
People walk their dogs on long leashes…
On my walk home…
I smelt fish and chips though there were no shops around…
On my walk home…
A man in a wheel chair hurtled down the slope making an old woman step into someone’s garden…
On my walk home…
I smelled burning plastic…
On my walk home…
I unconsciously race anyone who overtakes me…
On my walk home…
It should be a healthy walk but as it’s alongside a major road may be walking in a corridor of fumes from vehicles…
On my walk home…
A school girl waits near a bus stop for someone to meet her…
On my walk home…
There is a part hidden and unlit behind tree cover where someone could attack in the bleak midwinter undisturbed…
On my walk home…
There is no cover from the harsh sun of high summer…
On my walk home… I am alone.


A short vignette based on things I have seen while walking home from work. Written without editting. A ‘flow of consciousness’ piece I suppose you might call it.