Like a skittish horse, memory-shy, wings
singed, I draw near, approach,
approach, draw back, a white shape
in my eyes, approach, approach, touch, wheel,
echoes of music, draw back, instinct of pain,
approach, the white corners dance, the gate looms,
rears, I sink, sink, am over, from where the green
turf lies homely-waiting, the buds on the bulbs
wave, wave, am overt, into a land where white
ice and cold air blind my ears, an eternity of winter.
Under the waterlogs the beavers propel themselves,
seriously smiling, in the dark red water, building,
gnawing, slap-slap their tails, mud, fall, dank
construction, homes at home in the river, warm,
impenetrable, woodwoven fur, calm, dark ears under the water.