Just a bit outside Norwich
in the east of England,
Sarah lives
in a tiny thatch-roof cottage
on the gentle green banks
of the chalk River Wensum.
Mayflies cavort upon the water,
delight for brown trout.
Otter and kingfisher contemplate one another
but have little to say, while
whorl snail and white-clawed crayfish
conspire in the chilly mud below.
Behind Sarah’s cottage,
a small garden
mostly tends itself.
She sits there each evening,
delighting in the acrobatics of swallows,
the silent creep of the vole,
the lumbering waddle of the badger.
With the cottage and the garden
and the wandering Wensum,
Sarah needs nothing more.
And as the evening sun sets
beyond the unkempt hedge,
its last sliver of light
fallen from sight,
she clips a small bundle
of wild grape hyacinth.
Carefully trimming the stems
she places them in a vase
in the center of the kitchen table,
where they will stand,
sentinel of nighttime,
until the garden and the Wensum
awake once more.
August 31, 2022
Brian Kenneth Swain