One of the joys of life, when I lived in North Kensington in the 1980s, was to be near the Grand Union Canal. I would usually join the path close to Kensal Green cemetery, and walk under the bridge by Portobello Dock and continue on down to Westbourne Park. Occasionally I would push on as far as Little Venice (pictured) in Paddington, where the waterway becomes the Regent Canal. For those who don’t know it, Little Venice is an utterly charming oasis of tranquility: here you will see all the prettiest, best-kept barges, many of them teeming with fresh flowers.
The heron mentioned in The Cross (the story posted earlier today) is the same bird that features in the poem below. I saw the heron sitting in the undergrowth on the north side of the canal, that is, the side opposite the towpath, close to the cemetery wall. What struck me most at the time was how rare it is to see ageing wildlife. I know that cats when they are about to die often run away or go into hiding so that they can end their days discreetly and in dignity. On the day in question, the sadness of this bird’s fate really touched me and I felt that the least I could do was to make a space for it in my poetry. In later years, I must confess, I have also worried that the heron might have been an omen. I hope not!
Heron
That heron I saw
on the canal bank
half-hidden in the bushes
standing in nettles,
all confidence gone
looking old and bedraggled,
it’s long slender legs
begrimed, its feathers
clogged with oil
doubtless released
from a careless barge.
And yet
you don’t expect
to see a heron
looking old
and defeated,
once vigorous wings
as though clipped.
It barely raised
its head
as I passed,
its opaque eyes
half-heartedly scanning
the opaque,
stagnant waters
for some
lithe living form
to devour.
A crestfallen heron
as though lost
as though displaced
as though homeless,
a heron fallen
on hard times
in old age,
a creature of
beauty trashed
by time and
circumstance.
None of these things
is to be expected
in a heron.
John Lyons
1995
