At the water’s edge I lay in the easy company of the dragonfly somnolent; beguiled by the chirrup of the crickets in the long grass I watch, wait for the gentle kiss of the carp to break the surface still.
Long shadows are cast by the sunlight that filters through the trees glorious as it meets late summers eve but then with whoops and shouts, stirring the sediment to brew
a muddy ale; a sudden commotion. Marauders! Invaders! Jeers and catcalls ring out as becalmed becomes a boiling sea of flailing arms of jumps in and boisterous splashing’s and ducking’s of the head.
Pudgy toes glide in the slime, and sticky mud is drawn into the crevices in the skin as frogs bark alarm calls and ducks depart the water in a flap and boys spout, spray in splendid sparring ‘I can spit furthest’ shows.
Laughing they pummel the losers, hold aloft the champions, their shoulders, faces freckling in the glare. They dive, seeking cities lost to the river bed, surface empty handed, flecked with scum.
In a while the water cools and their skin is pricked and mottled blue and the breeze, lit like a still green stick, sings soft through the leaves above setting them adrift on the water, meandering unhurried to the grassy banks.
Rousing cries fall to idle talk, teeth chatter and sweaters are dragged over wet, wild hair as short trousers are staggered into and wrinkled, cold-white feet squelch into plimsolls before the boys, tired, empty-bellied make for home.
In moments they are gone; swallowed by the trees and only echoes and a trail blazed by feet and sharp sticks trampling the meadow grass remain. Vanquished, doleful I return to my idling; wait for the kiss of the carp.
WordBird. Poetry. Mainly. 