Friday, 4 October 2013

Tributary

Dawn rain steams off the woodland ride.
Nettles embrace the morning light.
Here, among the chin-slumped burdock heads,
the last ripe blackberries, their drupelets

large and moist, are half within sun,
half not. Over boulders of stone
and brick, wordless, elemental,
the river picks up pace until

an old orange leather football,
trapped among feathery rubble,
dams the flow. A hidden moorhen
squeaks from beneath another laden

bramble branch, which arches its tip
to stepping stones, where dippers dip
and water voles fetch into view,
like secrets disclosed to the few.

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