Summer Unthought

The waves are brown with churned up weed.
The sea beyond seems calm, belying.
Don't search the stones you trespass on for meaning.

On this side, the tide has come up to 
the wetlands boundary.
The herons white and grey regard each other
and pass on. 
In the drowning field they search for food
whose meaning is their business,
none of yours.

Return home with your dog;
leave all this thought behind.

September 2012