A sense of free debate . . . the day’s assertion
of light on a river in winter where swans
insist on their way, and a seagull’s motion
is carried. I have known quiet once.
I have known quiet once. Mute boats at anchor
hold firm and easy against the water’s backtalking.
But there are shadows, water-tight, that argue
darker claims . . . but all lacks reckoning.
A deep balancing up: a for-or-against considering
of all the theme of day’s debate. The sky
sunk in thought . . . then a new speaker appearing,
making the main point, but quickly, the sun in January.
And now the light before evening shivering on the water,
swans dipping, seagulls breaking up seconds . . . the sense is gone
of the estuary before us re-wording the quietness
of the day that caught our drift, and made us one.