A spot where dirt
and cool water stir.

Reeds spiral up,
only to thin and grow old –
bird-wings that flash gold,
a whip to strike breeze aside.

Water lies clean with eel grass
under the surface
still as moss,
if moss were
to boil when it rained
or cloud itself
when a fish flew by.

Watching from afar,
it is tempting to toss a sharp rock
and make the loch shatter:
fish scatter
grass waves.