Clay drinks rain from the downs
like a sponge, till it flies
beneath our sleeping village 
out to a common stream.

The bed is not it’s own
it only gives.
A being that lies not in the living 
but in the honour of a life well lived.

It knows,
fate travels up and down its bends 
only on occasion do the inspired young 
have a go;

Waves break,
shapes form and flatten, 
ripples open, deepen,
dive.

It doesn't last 
a current too strong, 
a word too loud, 
a purpose.

No melancholy here.
Fresh rain from the hills comes
for ducks to wade, 
fish riggle.

Jealousy? Envy? No.
Nor hope for a new way.
Love of place,
it knew all along.