The Heron

In the Kelvin Gorge
The river platters past, and sings
Its gentle, winding tale of centuries -
Long before we things of dust and shadow
Trailed blasphemous feet upon the blessed earth –
And, long after we are gone, of ages yet to come;
While on its banks, proclaiming to the breeze
Their wafted rustle of thanksgiving
To Him whose love and arm and prescient forge
Gave them, and us, our living,
Cascade the leaves of ancient willow-trees.
Sweet chatter of the choir
Of rails and thrushes, wagtails, on the slopes above,
Flushes lordly sky,
To make, in cheerful harmony
Their polyphonic psalm.

But stop! Look!
There on a rock, amid the stream, unstinting,
Grey-wing, still, so infinitely still,
In predatory silence,
Feigning sleep,
He will keep
His ruthless countenance
Sharp, glinting, fell,
Ever watchful, that beady eye
Ever ready standing, hungry, sentinel.