Wivenhoe

clink, utters the mast, then clink again again clink phieeew the wigeon not-quite-sings to the lapping waterblanket

the wigeon has troubled the immodest sky the immodest stillness of the sky

shore murmurs and now the murmur is sloshed with 

Splash! Water: a cormorant has delved into her

soundy folds and now inverts skyward his 

dive showing his fishless frustration of wings: the ebony,

a perpetuating black silhouette black perpetual silhouette

the wander of oystercatcher

soundless on the purple bed of marsh:

without urgency he peck pecks the crag and soil and saltflat stubbled in samphire spoiled with 

sapphires only he knows. Hush! 

Don’t rush - peewit! (so called): in place of the Cuckoo - so called

Egret, thy bend is a curve and thy neck swerves round as the bay

swerves white guest vaunting his holdable neck, on the 

calm Calm: depressed: mottled. Main, who lost a 

sea. if the egret’s neck is graspable, the amorous grebes are

not touchable, their eyes see only one

another; they are not dumb;

they twirl they are 

not dumbfounded they shed one 

not two tears they twirl they

shed no tears at all.

A pear, lightbulb on the blink before he is even born.

Stillborn. May hollow, watercrowned, blossom gloves the apple tree in

our Lady’s wayward honour.

the tigered caterpillars munch and munch thistles,

and munch and munch again much they munch. They

know: Bonny moth beauty (I believe they will

become moths) comes only after Gluttony. Only Gluttony.

the barbed arms are threadbared of green: it is all in the hope

that the adult colours of the hairy purple thistle

flower above can be matched one day

by the ravening catter-eaters chained to the useful stalk

come the time the violet chrysalii jump like

peppercorns and the newly adult newly fearless wings

sprout flowerly in adult reward for the last supper’s

supping come this time, the thistle has died and his flower is

fallen felled like a torn crown to the earwiggy thorns.

moths, admirals, ladies, shells, blues. There is no first and little beauty. Only last and final beauty,

coming late, later and Later.

The only way is gluttony. Mouth. Survive!

a ripple laps from no oar the fat oars of bullrushes wave their hotdog 

zeniths with gauche pitiable laughter

Now the flags suck up the plump strike of a waterfed wave

has a child thrown a stone? (No) - 

has the stone truanted from the course of his throw?

No. Has Excalibur been tossed to his banal return?

No… the cormorant is guzzling lunch.