Captured, a perfect moment,
The absolute stillness of it all,
Except two-step quivers from the current,
Where does it run, should I follow?
I’m tucked away, camouflaged and quiet,
Like earning a Brownie Explorer Badge,
Feigning indifference about ‘Angler Priority’
Though I should, and do a good turn every day.
A rusty-tongued leaf clinks through branches
Like a coin in an arcade slot machine,
Nature should revitalise they say,
Though my finger thuds like lead from the cold.
But the view is perfectly gram-able,
Everything looks as it ought,
‘Shouldn’t she be at work’? The wind bristles,
A braeburn-y leaf spares my blushes,
An eyebrow of a tail flicks,
The rattiest-squirrel eyeballs,
I should be enjoying the wildlife,
A vindicated duck begins to squawk.
That’s my final cue to leave,
But my leg is dead, and up I end
Perfectly dislocating into a heap.
Should I reconvene, same time, next week?