In neatly pressed grey morning suit,
Immobile and erect,
He stands alone at the waterís edge
Ready to detect
Any unsuspecting passerby.
An insect or a fish
Would give the ever-patient heron
An appetising dish.
In rather crumpled waterproofs,
Immobile and quite cold,
A man hides in the reeds to watch
Events as they unfold.
But this is not the heronís day,
There's not a fish in sight,
And so he beats his mighty wings
In slow and stately flight.
Across the lake the heron flies
Then turns and heads due south
And as the man climbs to his feet
His heart is in his mouth
For the very bird he loves to watch,
Of which he's grown quite fond,
Has watched him come and go before
And is heading for his pond.
the above work is copyright David Axton © All Rights Reserved