One long interval between the inevitable
jet from Lincolnshire across the wash
('Little Holland' where the flat land so
suits airbase construction, the whole
county's measled with the RAF) -
then curlews' plaintive, piping cries,
and further gulls' raucous complaints,
replace Elysium of wavelets, as I walk,
following the boys, back to the marsh
between the outer marram colonies,
wind into the close whine of my tinnitus,
and let the boys get out of sight ahead
round the curve of the creek.
The sun, in rusty, peaty pool, lengthens
under shallow dints of feathered breeze;
and this strange rain, so heavy
that plashed crowns bounce triple rings,
yet foot-spaced out so rarefied,
makes the sun a sparkler in that dark,
flaring down there steadily, each
shooting star projectile twinkling
out of light, but yet replaced in time
so steady as she goes, spark voyaging
to night, a fireworked wonder, spellbound
childhood for a bod's heart's-ease.
And then the strange drops stop
and sun is whole again - and glittering
the far creek with a bedspread of stars;
and the trodden mud by boot and hoof
is deep and sharp relief, backs of marram
blades a wet-look sheen. "Rain?
What rain? No rain where we were,"
Brendan tells me - and I smile at him.
