High water has licked
The silt with smoke.
The moon has dropped
Its yellow reins.
Paddling a punt,
I bump into banks.
Red haystacks by the fence rails
Look like churches.
With mournful cawing
In the silence of marshes
The black grouse
Is calling for vespers.
In blue gloom the grove
Shrouds the destitution...
Secretly I will pray
For your future.