On checking the comments this morning it was great to receive another of Glo's (of Porcelain Rose) poems.
A heron named Harry was wishing
He’d learned the fine art of ice fishing,
For here and beyond
There was ice on each pond,
With nary a fishtail a-swishing.
He saw a few holes, which was thrilling!
Perhaps they were left from John’s drilling.
He had to admit
That his beak wouldn’t fit
And to foot the whole bill would be chilling.
He stood on the edge looking wistful
Pretending his mouth held a fistful ~
An instinctual drive
He decided to dive ~
Upended and stuck in the midstful!
Brilliant Glo and thank you so much.