Wimblington is where you fell out of the sky
not at first like a sweet shower on a changeable day.
I’m thinking of the way like a shining spear or javelin
a waterfall can spout quite clear of a cliff, her force
for a moment little less than gravity, before she arcs
above a valley, graceful and loosening, and drifts
to the supple floor, an umbrella golden, many-coloured.
Water-spirit, my own daughter, rising, riding,
I see you falling, falling and laughing. Elementary.