Ode to Wilden Marsh
Dawn is slow to gather this morning,
hanging back over the river, almost apprehensive.
The marsh won’t wait, can’t wait.
It pulls what it needs from everywhere,
using whatever feeds it,
shunning whatever dulls its life.
The tussocks catch a wash of gold,
not bright, just enough to show the day has started.
The marsh is doing what it does best.
It is simply being a marsh.
Cows move through the pasture,
slow, heavy beasts still half asleep.
The marsh gives the wake-up call,
and the herd answers.
That is the order of things here.
Mist rolls in behind me,
following the dips and curves.
Pigeons rise together at angles
from hollows and brambles.
When pigeons break, the night is done.
Herons leave their platforms,
working for height without fuss.
No drama, no rush.
Just that smooth, gentle rise.
Long bodies, hollow bones.
The marsh draws them
towards South Pool.
Cattle shift again.
The soft ground records everything.
You only notice if you’re looking and seeing.
A green woodpecker shouts its bit.
“Let me through”,
and drops to its breakfast place,
claiming the spot as its own.
The marsh holds the day in its hands.
Light, air, movement,
all settle into the shape it wants.
It’s nothing grand,
just that familiar sense
that the place knows the day better than we do
Canada geese arrive,
ambling in small bands.
Not yet in full voice,
but working towards it,
re-establishing their bearings,
gathering strength for what’s ahead.
And with cold breath
And mud on my boots,
I fall into its rhythm without thinking,
letting the marsh lead,
same as everything else here.
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