The river mourns, bedraggled willows weep,
their tousled hair drenched in its silent tears.
Its darkened waters meet the dreary mood,
the sun withholds its glow in sympathy.
Otters frolic no more and stay indoors,
above autumnal leaves begin to fall.
The rushes twitch, and coots peer out, as below
their doors the heavy cortege wearily flows.
Perched on his lonely post, dressed in funereal
black, the cormorant bows, pays his respects.
A lowly swan takes flight and passing honks,
‘Alas our green and pleasant land is dead!’

By the end of our walk the sun had come out, but much of our morning stroll had a very different character.
(01.11.25)

© Ben Quant 2025