I. The Two Streams

Pow Beck winds through our valley, parallel
With Newlands Beck, a faster lucid water.
It is a puzzle that they do not meet
Where they run side by side; or rather where
The one easily hastens, glancing by
The small stones of its bed, shallow and clear,
Almost as rapid as the skimming bird,
A white-waistcoated dipper that haunts it;
While the other meditates, hardly moves,
Luxurious under weed that hides its movement.
Here less than half a field divides the pair.
Later, beyond the concave of our valley,
The direct Newlands hurries to its aim,
And Pow hives off, ambles by Portinscale
Towards the moss, where fields lose coherence,
...