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Mervyn Linford
Robin’s Brook   30th Oct 07

The brook is speaking today
beneath the sloes
through culverts
over stones
it makes the sounds
that autumn means to make
yet cannot utter.

The alders whisper
as scarce a breath
disturbs October’s mist
and sunlight throws
its shadows over fields
near white with stubble.

A flock of siskins
settles down to drink
from nettle stems
and roots exposed to air
and I can’t think
of anything more rare
than this autumnal
moment in the mind

where sloes, and mist, and
siskins seem complete
beside the brook
that lisps and
learns its lines
as sunlight stutters.