Impression

 

In the depths of trees,

beyond the reach of the sun,

fish are darting through the torpor

of beer-brown afternoons.

Below, in the leaf-litter,

choirs of earthworms

with yawning-wide mouths

sing long-forgotten sea shanties.

An hour turns

like iron-rimmed oaken barrel.

But on the surface all is movement:

stippled and dancing;

juggling the sun;

jingling the passing days away.