24. Jun, 2020

Sandfold

I found it again;
That place of midsummer,
Golden yellow with iris and waterlilies.
The place where dragonflies come from that hum by
In kingfisher blues;
Where a coot nests in bulrushes - black, white billed.
Trees hide the rich water, flush with carp and pike;
There’s a broken brick path
Through bramble thickets,
With two rough rocks for a portal,
A suggestion of the way to a fabled place.
The lake doesn’t come only once a year,
But I do, to its hideaway
In the middle of everywhere, as still as a secret,
Which is what we call it.
Last evening a heron,
Harassed by seagulls, flew over our garden.
I knew where it was headed,
Jibed at by its competitors,
Who can gorge themselves, anyway, on the tip,
Which is all that remains alongside.

Ruth Enright