Shades of the goose, the penguin? But that conduit

of snow-striped black, the lithe fluidity

on shore, are yours. Twin peaks, gothic against

humdrum waves, loom as feathers dry.

Body shapes – comic, ingenious or

statuesque – suggest an alphabet

of pictograms, odd pieces of furniture.
What would I need to lose, embrace, to be

so innocent of time; at rest in the fullness,

the adequacy, of what I know? A bevy

of swans and moorhens shares the river's nest.

A brilliant, rounded mind, the moon hones its truth.

Below the horizon, whales in convoy,

knowing what they know, are travelling north.