The dank and chilly breath of early day.

Cold drips of drizzle trickle down a neck.

Tendrils of mist wrap wetly around bones

and dog bitten boots, leak, soaking socks.

 

But in the hand a mug of steaming tea.

A Marmite butty, bites an eager tongue.

Ears are woken to a choir of birds

and ducks swim arrows; hoping for a crust.

 

The rain has left the grass a billionaire.

A ragged heron poses as a bush.

The dripping trees shake their heavy coats.

and tangled roots drink deeply from the cut.

 

Soon other boats will wake to test the day.

Toss lose their fetters from the muddy banks.

Engines will cough; to chug with smoky breath.

Slow turning props, wash swirls of turgid silt.

 

All is strangely loud after the rain.

Friendly noises, greetings and farewells.

The light will rip the gossamer of dawn;

and boats will weave the sounds of budding day.

 
 

David Garlick, Montsorrel, September, 1999