The Grey Heron Poem by Mark. A 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
Seeing huge, great wings align.