The Heron

for my Father My father is as noiseless as the bird, Transfixed upon his pirouetting bob, To angle fish his self-appointed job, He speaks with silence. It is his every word. Mirror to him, voiceless and unstirred, The heron stiffens, ready to make hob Among the flitting silver swimming mob. Beaking his prey, he leaves the water blurred. He rises like a spirit from the lake to seek his nest, crowning a cypress tree, At the utmost reach of my pursuing eyes. Dad passed today. Contented with his take, his creel pegged out, my father sought his quay Eternal, at a height I can't surmise.