Slack Water

Slack Water

Before I spotted him, the egret
had already tilted his compass
half-toward me, his almost-
still reflection questionable
only at the head-end, where
it quibbled with the shadow
of a stone. That was five minutes
ago. He hasn’t budged, although
the gulls have slightly shuffled
so rushes leave their sightlines
unimpeded, and one has made
a bow wave. Another contemplates
his ripple-whorl – a fingerprint in
surface-tension – his friends on stilts.

At first I thought their nonchalance
was feigned. Now, I’ve admitted
all seven of them are going to win
this stand-off; they have stared
me out, and just a second ago,
the tide lost nerve completely.

I back off into real-time, if that
is what this flux is truly called,
and leave them immortal, pointing
north forever, perfect in slack-water.

Poem by Giles Watson, 2015.