Talking to Herons
The only Lake in the Lake District
A biting breeze shook loose leaf confetti
as I skimmed the surface of the lake
with pebbles, from a weather worn jetty,
each dip stole colour from a deep opaque.
Silent as a distant steamer’s bow wave,
a Grey Heron steps into the shallows,
we watch each other, still and unafraid,
he stoops to take a sip and I swallow.
Air brakes hiss, coaching calm into chaos,
camera ants march down the steep grass bank
then spread out around the shoreline’s pathos,
I worry as they flex old creaking planks.
Two sharp blasts and the steamer arrives,
its paddles churn and the clicking subsides.