On the Riverbank behind St Michael’s


Where the Wyre winds through the meadows
Behind St Michael’s churchyard wall,
One summer’s evening long ago
We sat and watched the spindrift fall,
Eating cheese and pickle butties,
Talking of our long lost youth,
Whether Pratchett rivalled Dickens,
Whether death revealed the truth,
When suddenly the drowsy no-time
Scattered in a silk-blue flash,
That split the haze and broke the river
With an almost soundless splash.
Then up again the blue dart bolted,
Trailing water in an arc.
And so we watched kingfishers hunting
As the dusk drained into dark.

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