A Walk By The River Ure (By Kate Frater)

A Walk By The River Ure


After the assault on the old stone bridge

the river comes to quiet,

pestering the banks;

the skeletal roots of trees.


The trout are not returned,

no fishermen wade in

the peat-brown waters,

the sky says stubbornly, ‘snow’.


A pheasant runs with nonsense in its head,

in the distance

the tiny fleece of a lamb,

two oyster catchers, a curlew.


The wind is in everything,

bending the grass to prayer,

the crow flies;

black-winged surveyor of all.