— for Victoria* Seasons shuttle the tall stoic figure, Graceful and solemn as wafted mist, When seen, as if he was always there, Overarching into meek, gloamy skies Of mornings and dusk, mid day, lost, Seems not right for wading out kills That crane from above into the mud And murk of the penny eyed waters Only the ferryman will tender, for time Slips, sleeping with the fishes, spears Puddle and rim in the wakes, sparks Of waters break like a sputtering fire, His dart eyes are as yellow as golden Sun dancing in funeral pyre. So green Creatures, must they always be gotten, Gone, have it coming from the sheering, Mercies of the Great Blue Heron who is all Seeing, scything, down to dazed judgement, Incited, pecking to order at the squirming fold.