There be angel visitations, here,
in the silence,
in the upland wilds
As I wash socks by night, all seated by the burn,
Sleek little porpoises – beaks thrust forward like drink bottle spouts
dipping their heads
What do they eat in this pristine water?
The pairs keep touch with a sweet lisping whistle
whio, whio….
Answered by a quick
– Clack clack clack clack –
from the percussion section-
They scare an anachronistic shag up onto a branch
Snaking it’s long beaked head on its long neck-
in annoyance
Their universe is not mine – these angels
They barely notice my presence
focussed solely on clear water
and each other
sliding by my world … and vanishing.
South Paw 