Nether Hall

the river shifts shape, flooding the field
the sheep shift shape, flocking to high ground
huddled together, fleece to fleece

they warn and complain, and bleat
at the god that has come in the night
to surround them

and the river rises black dimpled
and the sun rises over hawthorn
and the sheep steam gently, their urine

mingling with the water as it drains away
leaving only a tidemark in the tops of the hedges
to tell what has been

the sheep shift shape, move off the island
begin to crop the waterlogged grass
soon, soon the first lambs will be born

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poem for david

after the frosts, the swifts
after the bluebells, the foxgloves
after the trippers and bikers, the wood pigeon’s call

is this the best there is, to make
the best of, leave for others?

here in the garden, you ask for my hand
I know your name, your gentleness
the bear-foot oak is yours, always