Any walk I’ve done, such as I have done,
which isn’t much, some April morning
or summer’s day, has been just far enough
to find a place to sit and think it out,
except I can’t decide what thinking’s for
or what the ‘it’ might be – love is always
somewhere in the mix or some oration  
prepared to knock ’em flat. I should, I know,
have tramped the frosty fields at dawn or gone out
‘botanising’, naming sorrel and wild primrose,
whereas I gravitate to a seat or bench
and look myself out of looking by looking at
a lyric brook throwing up a wave
or scattering, in little wavelets, feathers,
more white feathers across the further bank.


Take this pond, for instance, its border trees,
their soon-to-be-green or rather empty branches –
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