POETRY

The river – tidal here, beginning to open,

becoming estuarial – rises

among the reeds on the boggy moors

in the foothills of the mountains, rushes

down waterfalls, becoming this wide,

settled course. The mountain ranges are shades

of mauve, lilac, delicate purples.

Through the hazy March sun snow glints on the peaks.

 

At low water, sandbanks, mid-river, glow

golden. On the glistening mud-banks along

the east shore, curlews and lapwings feed.

The blackened, wooden ribs of a sunken boat

protrude. There are branches, torn nets, a buoy.

 

The light airs from the south become a light breeze

until the tide turns and a fresh breeze rises

from the north. Pennants and rigging snap

and jangle as a chill wind takes hold.

The incoming tide melds with the river

in brown-water flurries at the edges

of the banks, then the runnels fill, and eddies

whirl wider and wider until all is one.