By the reservoir there is a four and a half minute stretch of time
when no trains go past.
Not that the cormorant atop his post minds the trains.
But the heron seems to know, as he stalks on to a tuft
peering at the water.
Is it my imagination or do the terns pirouette much higher now?
Cygnets in unlikely repose
and parents a distance away still finely attuned.
Over by the empty pond nothing seems to happen.
There’s a crane hanging loose -
one of the metal variety.
I’m sure I hear a nuthatch, or maybe two,
but it’s more of a song than a call.
For now no one is taking fright
and a grebe dives down
for almost a minute out of sight.
Behind me a whole parliament of crows
has not one speaker as they trace the grass,
with waddles and hops.
A woman comes by with a pug off the lead,
nose to the ground but with haltering stride -
seen better days, now just gets by.
Some branches of gorse are flowering.
When are they not?
Any time of year it seems.
Gorse does not wait.
I move my arm and the heron elongates his neck,
looks straight this way,
stark, still. He tolerates me.
Nothing continues to happen.