Weir

Sludge water trees linger
linger on the edge of time
far from the here, now bright water
cascades from the weir.

A lone walker ruffles the silence,
carpet of reeds poppy’s storm
a flash of colour, lipstick on the verge
carmine clashing.

Dead weed billows
across the surface, decomposition
smells like sleep, oily edged
creeping green clawed to stick

dis – ease dogs scatter leaving
muddy footprints over twilight
a lonely owl calls.

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