That Perfect Picture
I stood staring into the fens;
Waves of endless brown breakers
Tidy, unremarkable and waiting
Rippling under a drifting sky.
A withered nettle flayed at my knees
Impotent and dancing, it
Flicked at my clothes
With stubborn, corrugated leaves.
I watched it;
Neck curved, like a drowning giraffe
Bobbing beautifully in the eventide
To an audience of stale brown.
That perfect picture
Of a field in the fens.