The hushing of leaves
in tune with the river’s rush,
while crickets sound alarm clocks
that nobody heeds,
as all the world’s awake,
chirruping, squabbling
unseen from treetops.
The spaniel gallops on
to dive-bomb her reflection,
but we follow gingerly
on two legs apiece,
picking our way unshod
down a dusty track
of pebbles and brush.
On land we are various
veterans and teens,
and all stations in between,
dark, fair, mousey,
strapping or thin,
Parisians, Londoners,
coastal and country folk,
Straining to understand,
with frowns and smiles
and schoolgirl linguistics,
picking our way gingerly
through conversation,
busy hands grasping
at long-lost nouns.
But anyone knows
the language of cool water
in shared sunlight,
the tremble of goosebumps,
the shocks of glee,
of fright and wonder,
echoing up an empty ravine.
Some plunge in with the dog,
while others totter in the shallows,
gripping greasy rocks
with soles and fingers,
leaning to the current,
stretching for a firm hold,
like infants for a favourite toy.
By ones and twos we reach a cove
where crowfoot blossoms
trail green tendrils in the flow,
and minnows flash
their silver trinket bodies,
hovering against the drift,
dangled from some great ornament.
Blue bejewelled dragonflies,
and silken butterflies
of yolk and butter yellows
potter in their floating gardens,
where we lounge and gaze,
a dozen timeless children,
flowers draggled in our hair.
The longest day of summer
stands still for us
and waits.