Frost heron
From the remnant crowd
Of Hob Moor snowmen,
One took flight.
An egret,
Spooked from the beck-bank
By my crunching footsteps.
Angel-winged, it looped
Serenely to a nearby perch
And froze.
In black and white,
Three heckling magpies
Gave it the birch,
Like choirboys scoffing
At a new priest
In vestments.
Archbishop Neville
Once roasted a thousand
For a Minster banquet.
I was content
To feast my eyes
On just one, glowing, alive.
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