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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.
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