In Print 03

Over forests dark, unfriendly,
Swept the now despairing heron,
With his ever tiring wing beats,
Pulsing breast and heavy bearing
Flying while his eyes were searching,
Searching for a place of haven,
Where his tired and heaving body,
Panting with a deep exhaustion,
Might find rest, and peace, and comfort,
Safety from his cruel pursuers:
Two swift goshawks ever nearing,
Closing in upon their victim;
Hooked talons upward clawing
In their cruel anticipation,
In their lust for blood and killing
Sure of quick and easy battle,
Confident in beak and talon.
But the heron still was flying,
His proud spirit still unconquered,
For across his eye there fleeted,
Gleaming through the darksome forests,
The bright flash of running water,
Leaping, roaring, flashing water.
So he closed his wings about him,
Clasped his talons tight beneath him,
Violently in mid-air halted,
From above his failed pursuers
Watched their prey as he descended,
Dropping downwards, swift, unswerving,
As the forests closed about him.
Then, they fell, in fast, tight circles,
Till above the trees they hovered,
And they saw him, the proud heron,
Borne away upon the waters,
By the onward rushing waters;
Cushioned on his last and death-bed,
Till he disappeared for ever.