The Grey Heron Poem by Mark Heathcote

Seen as a wader, the gleaner
of these murky margins.
He is in for the long haul. Neck deep,
so gracefully slender.

Mercurial in his marshes
he marshals, lean and tall
so still yet quickly rises to flight
a windblown, paper kite.

Something prehistoric visits
town garden ponds. The bathroom
-light that now solicits your own-
fountain disturbs this pool.

Through a small open window gap
You can hear something flap
Like linen hung on a clothesline
see huge, great wings align.