These last days I have spent
doing nothing but reading
your John Clare and the name itself
has come to change meaning.
It is still up on Coombe Hill
and there is late summer sun
boiling the reservoir I’m fishing
today, trying to re-belong.
I regret the fidget in my heart,
my firm-set bad timing,
the inaccuracy of my cast.
The forty-odd miles north of this swim.
Will Burns, 2016