OVER THE HILLS

Vast banks, bluffs of clouds are moving steadily,

unerringly it seems, from the west – some

darkling with the makings of rain, others white

like the little egret that rises

from the sunlit reeds, and flies westwards, across

the wide estuary to Wales and a channel

of open water. Beyond is a range

of low hills, whose fields are bright with sunlight

or deep shadowed by chance clouds. Out of sight

are mountains, valleys, coastlines, a sea.

The little egret’s ancestors have travelled

aeons for just this imagined moment:

reflections passing in fleeting water –

a white bird, shaped, hulled, like a feathered

sailing clipper, and islands of cumulus.