This is the creek which has always collected itself.
These are the fibrous bits of thistle.
Nobody fishes here.
That cluster of rushes looks like a genius,
messy hair, bright ideas
shooting off in every direction,
I know exactly what I must do
to be happy. But I can't be bothered.
Tangle of root, cement slab,
oak heaving up
through old foundations.
Ants crawl over slime traced with patterns
of more soggy stems, matted leaves.
I have let this happen.
Creek bed, teach me not to fear tick or snake,
but to watch the water bug with perfect love.
Let me stay here till a busload of biologists
clambers through, numbering me
with the stinging, the succulent,
the creatures who need no forgiveness.
- Robin Morris