A line of green and buff and dun,
Above it, the azure, cobalt, almost turquoise, slap dash sky
Dappled in little clouds, pale, pretty, fair,
And here and there a patch of grey or almost night.
And below, the smooth, polished cylinder glass of the river, where:
Their feet moving gracefully, treading on tension,
Four legged water boatmen,
Their necks stretching to reach reflected shoots, which do not show.
And to the left, as I pass by,
Each turbine blade, on turning, casts on itself a shadow,
A wedge of storm, slate blue,
Almost a match for certain streaks and patches in the sky
Not quite as purple as the flags of light on sand,
Clay, and hard brown mud exposed at ebb tide’s half fullness
Which glow
With quiet dullness.
And as I walk away,
Branches of silver birch, bare, fully shed of autumn’s butter yellow
Shimmer, shiver in more obvious delight
At the touch of the sun.
