In and out of sunshine, squadrons of azure
rollers target the old stone Pack Horse Bridge, where
flying ants becloud the valley. It's the sort
of balmy day when everyone feels the heat.
The river mutters while it imbibes Bonesgate
Stream - named by the past for the nameless Plague-pit
dead - like a half-cut solitary customer
hailing his partner at a late-night bar.
The rollers strafe the ants, as if they'd swallow,
like pelicans, buckets of fish in one go.
A red admiral, basking on the warmest plot
of thistledown, billows its wings in and out.