Shivering

Unnamed stream, North Devon 10/03/26

Tucked down the vale,
a subtle sliver of water overclouded by wrensong,
snagging occasional outpourings of sun;

Devon usually has me chasing ocean’s
unutterable wildness, finding ways to dabble feebly at its edges.
I forget the knots and folds, the old woods,
the wet sighing of saturated moors spilling to the sea.

But this morning, it’s this quiet rill that has me
in hunkered shadows and hushed, mercurial rippling;
Nameless on the map, and sung of by only a few,
unless you count the birds.

In unclenching fernheads,
stippled ramsons,
mossed roots,
dog-clawed mud
and islets of celandine
the cosmos opens -
my own cells shivering alight
with the spatter of freckling water,
and Wren, tugging my heart into the air
with a filament of sound

I take the top path back,
water winking starlight through the trees,
as they murmur

we should count the birds.