A Bittern Boomed
I heard the reed cloaked bittern boom in rolling mists one afternoon, as camouflaged amidst the gloom, he stayed to hunt his prey.
Motionless and sure of foot, aside the marsh a cut bank brook, with steely eyes at rooted nooks, he watched the eels in play.
Swiftly thrusting daggered bill, to spear a fish that writhed until from stab and twist inflicted, still It’s lifeless body lay.
How rare the sound, a Bittern boom, so pleased was I that afternoon, to see him feed amidst the gloom, where reed and rushes sway.
A Poem by Peter Hoskins
