the heron
fishes the pond
at the weir’s foot
where the perch
are harboured
and the water runs
and is still
it is never summoned
to the river
as the kingfisher is
nor does it belong
to water
as cormorants do
the heron
stands apart
narrowing
to a point
so as not
to be noticed
one solitary stare
suppressing sound
and movement
mimicking nothing
except the custodial stance
of the pond
for a hostile purpose
it has turned away
from the sky
and taken on cloud
and the sun’s glare
for cover
and even when
fish doze
the sharp heron
is hunting for them
in pools
streetlighting
the dark
the Roman augurs
thought it
a bird of divination
and watched
its sortition
of the waters
for signs
what they really saw
was the sortilege
of small creatures
and a large bill
that is the last word
in gulping down
so that death
is protracted
and entire
afterwards
they jump
into the air
to get aloft
and use the cope
of their wings
to wind
a tight corner
before flying back
to regurgitate
the catch
for their young
herons
do not last -
they stand too much
athwart
neighbourhoods
rise against
these fisher kings
then they are found
defaced
and awry
wrecked
and wrung
or torn on wire
their own deaths
are unassimilable
after the killing
they mete out
making others
become part
of themselves
the heron
may be called
to strangeness
yet the bird
never overfishes
the shoal
quivering inside
the yellow eye
the same weir
that keeps
the basking perch back
from the receding
current
also disguises
the heron
with the bridge arch
when it puts aside
stealth
and spreads itself
in flight
it shrieks
and makes calls
like any other bird
it flies
lighter
and broader
than any
Blackwells
Oxford
2 January 2018
This poem is about the Eurasian Grey Heron, Ardea Cinerea. There is nothing weird about the beautiful herons that live in New Zealand, the Whitefaced or Blue Heron, or the White Heron or Kotuku, which self-introduced from Australia. They are more like cranes. I have made the most out of the opportunity which Ardea Cinerea presented me with.