Iken

The river moves on
swift as a marsh harriers’ light flight,
landing to scurry along the ripples of a tidal pull.
A dove grey sky
gives way to silent shafts of sunlight across reed beds
where ancient St Botolph stood.

The call of a curlew caresses the reeds,
turning them into a rolling sea of whispers
bowing to the wind, bending to catch its secrets
as I walk on outwards and inwards,
my journey not yet done

following the paths of fishermen and
the lonely tracks of shepherds,
of all the pilgrims that have passed here before,
all long gone but present beneath my feet,
the routes ahead luminous with all their comings and goings.

I accompany the tide away and towards them, following the sandy
curve of the river, its reed beds bathed in gentle gold.
It is they who become my conduits,
confidants to the trail of a wandering soul wide open to the overarching Suffolk sky.
All my companions, until we are caught beneath the cheek of a full moon
washing its round face in the flickering ebbs of night waters.