Levels at Sidmouth

We laugh watching the drake that zips
By the flashing barrier of the ford
And over the weir waterfall
With two flaps at the splashing,
And, I say, no quacking at all,
And one of the green white and brown
Composite wine-bottle kind
We think was a mallard's hybrid hatchling
- No acquisition fresh to
The British list or menu -
Which, round seven-thirty each evening,
Waits at a bus stop.

But how could you, young self
- Without being abashed
By the herring gull on one leg laughing
...