The morning after

The waning moon grows paler
with the rising sun.
A grey boat, engine softly purring
pushes through the morning mist -
Happy New Year! Happy New Year!
they shout and wave from the roof
then they are gone
and the silence folds back on itself.

A dark crumpled thing
like charred paper
tumbles out of the willow,
becomes blackbird,
flies away.

Heron fishes at the edge
of a small oxbow lake
made by flood water,
while cormorant
is just passing
through.

Kingfisher zigzags
between
canal and river,
river and canal.

Catkins teasing from the hazel
could be mistaken for spring
too soon, too soon.

This new day
this new year
and I am home.