A poem by GEORGE DENNIS.
Two swans change course
With a single inviting slosh.
The river is at its banks
And is flat with the land,
Still and full of the coolness of the sky.
There is a signet. It does not match,
Still brushed with ash. Plumage still dull.
It too changes course.
The pastures are rich
With the last of the flood.
Patches of sky amongst the grass,
Grass saturated with a new green.
Trees are bare but there are few.
Starlings shift from the branches to the ground.
A stream is loosened from the river
Slipping over the bank.
I crouch beside it and place my hand
against the flow.
I will listen to its delicate hum
until my hand stings with cold.
There is a church tower ablaze on the horizon.
Smoke stretches upwards and is black
Like ink.
Featured image courtesy of George Dennis
