The heron is a Presbyterian minister,
Standing gloomy in his long grey coat,
Looking at his own reflection in a Sabbath loch.
Every now and again, pronouncing fire and brimstone,
He snatches at an unsuspecting trout
And stands with a lump in his throat.
The congregation of midges laughs at him in Gaelic;
He only prays for them, head bent into grey rain,
As a lark sings psalms half a mile above.
Kenneth Steven (who has kindly allowed me to use this in my blog)