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