England

i write until there is only
a trail of ink
the path of a swan
the tide drifting up the Thames

i sit by the river's edge
and watch the gulls
wheel and spin

clouds lick up the light
a sentiment of the sea
a lone tree in a field

hedgerow, willow and warbler
bare arms of branches
the cliffs ebbing away
the soft light obliterating
everything

.