The trees are in the water now and the hawk
is in the oak. I am counting my sorrows.
The bulrushes are Indian incense now,
signals, smoke, wild irises
part now, yellow, three, coot chicks
are in the water, following. The weasel
slipping into the water now. The landlord,
on boxing day, comes drunk
with his gun and his son.
Is this normal?
My companion asks me.
In the night she calls and dies.
A hoopoe. The gate. The fence.
The field is in the water now. The heifer
calving between the waters now.
The lawn.The hawthorns. The hills
now. The grass. The track. The bullock
wading. Geese bump against
the front room. I have been left.
The waiter brings more water now.
The fields. Ducks. Moorhens are at the
door. The cows, stranded. At one, the closest
to me, in age, leaned over the pram
and pulled up his phlegm.
No I say, no, and a cold full breath
reaches across the water
to the window. The house is water now.
The sky. The air. The way
both sides, all water now.