ABOVE THE STREAM

Sleeping in the converted mill, water
slipping by underneath to where the one swan
kept his place in the current with invisible strokes
through the anywhere of darkness

till the marshy horizon brightened,
even before waking we half recognised
the soft bustle of cows below the window
footing our sleep like rain.

We rose above the cool stream to a daylight
of eating, talking, exploring.
Drawn back at night to wait out
the gap till morning’s rational circumstance,

we lay leaning our ears to water’s insistence,
hearing our memories and dreams
flow out where cattle grazed
and wind among slow saltings to the sea.

Jenny King