This poem was conceived a long time ago, as part of a much longer thing I tried writing in memory of my father. As the longer thing still isn't even remotely satisfactory, I've re-worked this bit into a very short poem. I think it works.
Still
Life, With Waders
I remember he was a twitcher
before there was twitching.
But not just a list of sightings
ticked off like train numbers.
Love seeps from his lists of Lapwing,
Linnet, Greylag, Goosander and
the great, Great Bustard.
There are still sunset waders
near the shore
up to their Redshanks
in a
skin of light.
