The Heron
Near quiet river-margins, or canals’
Slow, silent banks the white-front heron stands,
Grey-backed and tree-stock still, (in feathered cape
Black-bordered as a death-note), hunched thigh-deep
In mirror-waters patient, calm and poised
For instant action: death’s executor
For fish and frog, for toad and eel and vole.
Head tucked between slim shoulders, (or stuck stiff
Upon extended neck, resembling most
A motionless dock-derrick unemployed
Above deserted harbour-quays), he waits!.
As harpoon from a whaler’s gun, he stabs
The water viciously, then points his tines,
(Between whose tips the living victim squirms),
Skywards as though thanking his deity.
A few quick jerks induct his prey, headfirst,
Into that snaky gullet. Then he shakes
Himself, in seeming ecstasy, and hauls
Into the air on broad, slow wings whose beat
Matches the tempo of the passing-bell
Which tolls a death. Then he is lost to sight
Setting another ambush, heron-sprung!.
