I think about the days I wait for kingfishers

And are they the same as the ones when they dont appear?

Little egrets we see more often

still feel special in their return to base approach .

The man that shouted Otter! Otter! Otter!

Kept me looking harder at the same  spot.

The river and its brooks carries dark tales

Mercifully  not so often as the birds.

As the kingfisher skimming flights

I wonder,

If they returns to the nest

To tell tales of the bloke in his orange jacket and his scruffdog dog

That they see from  time to time in the same place coincidentally

And the little egret speaks of our admirable post flood consistency

And the ghosts of the past take heart

From the repitive  breaths of the living.

And then home for tea.