As summer nudges cornflowers and chicory
into undecided September, a ditch is stirred by the tansy eyes,
lime-striped back and combat-trousered legs of a marsh frog.
We prise the last few blackberries, turning from ruby to plum,
and whistle along the tributary, like the brood of moorhens
that launches in, all legs, to spatter at pace across the stream.
Sunset searchlights the valley; finds parakeets inching sideways
on a bough; then a tower-block’s lower storeys,
where a balcony’s filled by somebody’s sky-blue bike.