Cley Marshes.

        (For Bob and Al, and days spent on the marsh).

       Broken clouds scurry across the open horizon,

       heading out to sea.

       Fragile sunlight shimmers on still, mirrored water,

       dancing capriciously among the margins of the reeds,

       like Jack-o'-lantern; a golden orb, at once

       full of promise, yet strangely synthesized.

       Out of the rising morning mist,

       the bittern 'booms' his primeval song,

       older than all spirit: the echo that fills

       my unconscious mind, reveals only emptiness

       and longing, pouring into the frozen air

       like a flock of winter geese, robbing eternity

       of its vastness.

       Here I am truly alone,

       among the whispering reeds;

       prey to owls and the noises of the heaving sea,

       as it crashes onto the pebbles,

       grinding worlds to grit and sand.

       The marsh sways in rhythm to the chill breeze,

       dancing to the tune of its maker:

       to a thousand piping indistinguishable birds,

       that babble of inhumanity and mourn for justice,

       as the windmill turns the sky.