KINGFISHERS by the FORD

The summer drought is on:

stubbled golden cornfields;

late hay-making and bleached meadows:

as Wimbledon finals fully flow

mesmerizing half the nation.

Down in the deep shades of 

Tuckenhay along the Dart estuary:

the tide is far out, the Moon huge and full;

there’s an old bridge by the Watermans Pub

dimpled by moorhens in the shallows

with towering beeches, oaks, cedars and sycamores

lacing the azurine Beyonds.

There are ancient tracks and paths, 

steeply banked lanes over the hills,

alongside burbling streams

with, until recently, a paper-makin

g Mill and wonky cottages immersed in riverine woodland,

which are still populated by owl and heron.

A shining, turquoise flash

streaks upstream

under the drooping branches,

  hugging the chanting waters  as they tumble over the stony ford,

to the calling of the sea.