Archery Society

At the river you slipped the quiver

from your shoulder while I tore

up the French stick and dimpled

the slow eddies under the willow

with bits of crust and flake.

Then, creasing the surface

like steam-irons, the cygnets came

from downstream; noiseless,

frigid judges with black eyes.

We just about ran to the Volvo then.

But then there was the tension,

the stillness of the floating logs

and the spotlight of the moon

on one of their lofty, coathanger necks.

I don't know, but if it wasn't for

the way they didn't even blink

when they saw us, or the way

that they knifed through

this bottle-green Sussex creek,

then maybe we'd have left then.

Most nights now, I can still hear

the bowstring fall slack, still see something

hanging midstream like a burst

carrier bag; still see grace disappear.

© Matthew Gregory 2006