Confluence

Obviously, that floppelling water.
Probably too, an electronic whinge

underpinning the sharp-textured intent
of foraging trips by birds. But not this.

Of course, there would be pheasant,
raucously throaty, as pattered-down mud
raised morning scents. You knew well enough
to duck the fishing rope knotted to a branch.
 

But, when you touched the peeled-back bark,
rubbed beyond the charcoal marks, the elm
wasn't smooth, but sandpaper strange.
And the nettle's goodbye gave no sting.

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Beth McDonough's poetry is widely anthologised and published. She reviews for DURA and elsewhere. Her first solo pamphlet Lamping for pickled fish is published by 4Word. Her site-specific poem has just been installed on the Corbenic Poetry Path. She is currently Makar of the Federation of Writers (Scotland).