Walled in fresh stone,

the Water of Leith

runs to a quick measure

under this bridge.

 

A heron stands

biding its afternoon,

a grey hump

set on stiff rods.

 

Balsam’s pink bonnets

twirl downstream,

drowned moths cupped

on the water’s skin.

 

The heron stirs, wades

through green camouflage,

puts down careful feet,

two loose bunches of keys.

 

If there are puddocks

crouching in the nettle-shade

it high-steps over them,

stands, resumes its stare.