The tiny Wagtail,
Picks her way carefully among the rocks.
Keeping scutcheon clean and white,
And after a cold and hungry night.
searches out sweet treats for her flock.
The common ducks wash and preen,
Unabashed at being seen
Bathing publicly
In their morning routine.
And the cheerful whistled tune of a local song,
Is caught up by the swifts
As pair by pair,
they flit along,
In the soft grey green river mists
Villagers fetching morning bread,
Hail as they pass
The chattering stones on the river bed
Spin lace through rippled glass.
And couples murmur quietly their daily “Quehaceres”
In a lilting gentle baritone dispelling all their cares.
And blending with their Cántabro
With a tone so
Constant, clear
The river runs through Limpias.
And I find myself, just here:
Beneath the olive-brown shoulder of the hill,
its yellow, flowered banks reflected in bright hue.
From fresh mountain rill,
To the valley
And then on through,
The clouds lift their rainy mantle giving way to the warming blue.
Beside the still and peaceful Áson,
I give my thanks to you.
For Dad
26th April 2024
Joseph
Morriss
