3 Jan 2021, poem
Trees look like orchards netted for birds,
the two rivers run away to the mist,
still ferrying the flood’s mangled timber
up and back down to the pewter sea.
I predict dolphins cruising the mouth but
just meet waves and the sound of Oystercatchers
piping downstream. My powers are fading.
A boat swamps a slip of ecclesiastical blue,
the grey and faint blue ripples roll round
like a revolving zoetrope. A Little Tern loops
up and swoops down in front of us, tiny bird,
black cap, golden bill, pulls out at the last
and banks, harbouring the name ‘sea-swallow’
but then flicks sharp wings across the river.