The days are short, the light is low,
It bounces on the water like a skipped stone.
Ripples in the gravel become waves on a sea,
Casting shadows in lines, semi-regularly.
Reeds hang o’er the river, wheaten gold,
The mud gleams and shimmers and doubles each gull
Which waits while the tide returns and the sun struggles up
To a low zenith.
This quiet eve of Christmas is a short day
And a little work goes a long way.
Warm in the sun but cold on the breath,
The air catches clouds in mysteriousness,
Holding them still, for a moment, till they disappate,
And I, like the gulls, reflect and wait.