At the River

At the river

I while away hours

Thinking to myself

that there’s probably something more useful

or extraordinary

that I ought to be doing

but nothing wakes me until the light

catches the tendrils that creep up the trees

and the under the skin pleasure

of ducks shooting over the water in flight

The warm caress of the sun

and the leaves of the hedge

with so much tenderness to give

The river runs through me

Effortlessly still

on a spritely winter afternoon

In no hurry to be anywhere

but now

This most ordinary place

Where everything extraordinary lives.