The Axe had broadened
to an estuarial display
of greys and silvers,
of pewter hammered on by
currents, vagaries and sun,
was travelled on by winds
leaving dying wakes and ripples
and transient tracks as clear
as those that oyster catchers
leave on mud; so many birds
were there, low tide, slack
water, all along the edges
probing thin cries into salted
air. A boat approached on
bright reflecting wings
and all the seabirds took
to sudden flight and with them
went, as though they carried
all away in one whole sheet,
the estuary entire; and what
remained was a wooden boat
on wooden water and silence
like that of a quenched fire.