Poem 701 – Old Man of the Lake

Bespectacled and precariously perched upon a branch,
he sits and waits until it’s time. Skillfully
striking, he winds his prey to shore then flaps
away, a lumbering flight of bone and grey.

On an afternoon walk today we realised a heron, a bird that always demands attention.
(27.09.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Patrice Bouchard on Unsplash

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