(a bit of silliness really)
Shall we shortly
traipse mad in a zigzag smear?
Squint, there’s the shape of me
– can we make out in the shadowy shallows
this riparian ripe life smelling of the mire
ferns wriggle out of? Spy me. Everyone else
does, doze among those weeping willow shadows
half shore, half unsure, lolling half in tepid water
turning slimy where freshwater snails slide up
the juncture between the being and the reflection
sediment stirred by a stone thrown away
with a shrug.