Heron

Heron

Daily at dawn and at dusk,

His ghostly glide-path,

Takes him down to his target.

A stealthy attacker,

Coming in from the blue beyond,

A large shadow in the sky,

Darkening the surface of the pond.

There he sits patiently waiting,

An expert fisherman on the bank:

A huge, hungry bird,

With an eye glinting and greedy,

Wondering which ones to target

From among the frightened fish,

Swirling in panic just beneath the netting.

It’s the battle to survive, the battle to eat,

And the battle to feed the young in the nest,

Which drives his hunting attitude.

The koi and the carp,

The orfe and the comets,

And the shimmering Shubunkins

Are my darling ornamentals,

But to him are just his dinner.

It’s a battle of wits between us:

Ever-watching, ever-vigilant,

Neither of us will give any quarter,

In the struggle to be the victor,

To be the one last left

Staring down into the water.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016