(but it rides time like riding a river)

the fen lies dry now, no more

I hear the startle bittern in the

evening light, or old will above

the rushes, flitting high and yellow,

the oscillate splash of an otter

sinking into perpetual darkness with

the sleek of shades various

when the mud bubbles bulb,

shiver, pop; and when the floodstunted

trees on the long bank fall into the

reedbed, and the harrier lifts like a

smaller heron to drop sound in

the marsh; dances, the lantern swaying

swings upward, out to the

night and the angels around him,

circling into nothing like a never balloon:

then

I shall be there, I shall sweep through

the sluice and carry away the stillness,

once more you shall hear the startle bittern

in the evening light