February Morning

Grim, schoolmasterly herons are standing, regularly spaced,
in the tussocky field above the canal,
where there are usually sheep, but not today.
I am walking the towpath on a grey February morning.
I pause to watch, while the herons ignore my presence. I am too far away
to concern them; they have their assembly to attend to, as,
furling their dusty academic robes behind them,
they study the ground with the same fixed attention
as did my old teachers during prayers.
I suppose on this damp morning they may have some hope of worms,
maybe even a frog or two; a heron must take his pickings where he can.
I linger a moment more, listening to the early season’s birdsong
from the nearby wood - great tit and robin, mistle thrush,
still the winter singers at work, and
not yet the blackbird whose song always begins my spring.
I start, as the loud crack of a gun shatters the serenity, while from the tree tops
pigeons scatter, as well they might. And across in the field I see first one,
then all the herons lift into the still and drizzly air;
assembly is over - time, I suppose, for lessons. Well,
there are ducks at the lock, and I have some grain to throw,
so I go too.