A Walk By The River Ure

After the assault on the old stone bridge,
the river comes to quiet,
pestering the banks;
the skeletal roots of trees.

The trout are not returned,
no fishermen wade in
the peat-brown waters,
the sky says stubbornly, 'snow'.

A pheasant runs with nonsense in its head,
in the distance
the tiny fleece of a lamb,
two oyster catchers, a curlew.

The wind is in everything,
bending the grass to prayer,
the crow flies;
black-winged surveyor of all.