The oars are keeping time, a touch
of blade to the clear body of water’s enough
to change course, send the boat
towards the bank or under grey ash arms
into a tangle of italic leaves –
so drift on a cold current further down
to the little weir and the pool below
where white cattle dip their heads
and the long bridge lopes its easy arches
over the heron’s back and bleaching grass.
Let go. Let the ticking minutes slowly sink.
The oars are shipped, last sound, and out of silence
skimming faster than eyes can tell the mind
to see the kingfisher hurls its blue
over the drifting boat where I hold tight,
in the ash trees’ shade, knuckles gleaming.