Little oak river

On rarely seen plain ivy vein

Dark scattered steps of green weave down

To the sleeping screen of dark water.

Brambles scramble over ancient ditches

and the fox tracks under forgotten fences

wend dry dens under long dead elder,

leaning and cracking with the weight of others.

Who knows here?

Not the screeching parakeet fleet

Not the siren bumbling through crowded cars

nor the silent roar of the London bound.

The little oak river runs rapid beyond the bank of flint and earth

Shrouding in dusk,

Receding from versimilltude

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