There’s a heron by the Quaggy,
Across the road, in Brookmill Park.
He stands on one leg in the snow,
Soon be snapped by my old friend Bo.
Someday perhaps I’ll see it too,
When next I visit old Deptford,
That feels a long way off today,
As we’re all still stuck in lockdown,
We wait for all clear siren sounds,
Politicians swim through treacle,
Mistakenly blame the people,
Who don’t play by their confused rules.
Down here, two fifty miles away,
As last nights snow begins to melt,
On radio I hear the fools,
Play pass the parcel with the buck,
There is no desk on which it stops,
As Pritti now sends in the cops.
Not one has the ability
To take responsibility.
Perhaps to Frog House I will bring
My friend good cheer in next years spring.
I hope the heron is still there,
In twenty two some pints we’ll share.
Harry Rogers, in the Red Bedroom, 24th January 2021