Winter Brent.

A flow, risen, deep earth in the trickle,
half-flooded across the short days,
whitened with dam-bubble froth,
teasing branch, looming in gales, terse.

I check periodically, as a scholar,
height, in its approximated metres,
ripples, thick, toppling islands, modest—
if only the flow would not go, 

I say, nodding on, tote bags, dense, swung.