for my small garden. He is always in sight of death Lifting high each careful unwebbed foot. I notice -- I cannot help it -- how It's all to one purpose, this killing machine With its concentrations of stillness. Thoughtful he seems, thought-heron Who is everything brought to a point. He is a finished thing While, being here busy with language, I feel like the old man I saw in the street Both hands on his stick and entirely Preoccupied with his walking. I open the door, heron turns To look at me for a moment -- What is it he recognises Before going back to his island In the reservoir? It's a mile or so from here Where he nests untidily in the trees And the frog he lets fall when I startle him -- The mangy fox, brush gone to a piece of string, Arriving later will hold it Sideways in his jaw, twisting and snapping. But heron -- just watching one, It can start to make you feel good Before he unhurriedly lifts and floating away Goes into a fold in the air, A substanceless sign. So how did he learn To be so alone in the sky? As upwards he sails, breasting my thought The play of him will continue In here to enlarge my mind As if I imagined mornings When he and I might breakfast together. 3. JARDIN DES PLANTES THE ICELAND POPPIES are on the march bright white day all the things we