The Pool’s Edge.

On the edge of the pool, the birds
are like statues, then there is movement.
The flick of a tail, a long, curved bill
probing the rich mud for treasure.
A single feather, curved, white as a snowflake
caresses the surface of the green water,
drifting aimlessly, then spinning wildly
as if cast adrift in outer space.

The curlews arrived by moonlight,
reading the night skies like mariners,
stroking the stars with outstretched wings
echoing ancient song like the star-born.
The pool’s edge somehow seems
fulfilled by their presence, and
the moor beckons like an old friend.

The small party of long-billed snipe
take off with zigzag flight across the water,
diving for cover in the spikes of sedge.
Among the lapwings that patrol
the shallows, their flamboyant crests
giving them a musketeer appearance,
a lone golden plover stands proud
puffing out its black summer finery.

Out on the water a goldeneye still lingers,
but soon spring will urge it to journey home.
Grebes tread water in age-old ritual
and swans plough the rippling water
like strange elfin boats. Teal that somehow
mark winter on the pool, sweep by like arrows
to be engulfed suddenly by the reeds. Mallards
dabble, upending in unison, while the crested
tufted duck and pochard dive beneath the dark
water to bob up later like corks.

The pool is a place of transition,
of fleeting shadows and footprints
devoured by seeping water and oozing mud;
a world within a world, a sacred enclave
bathed by seasons and claimed as sanctuary
by the secret herds.