On the Ogmore estuary the Canadian geese clamour
as the dusk draws down,
the whole brown-blazered congregation rouse
from their riverside field, as though now
comes the boarding call to take wing.
The large honking mass splinters: one lot veer
over the dunes, the other team strike
straight inland, back up the valley, tracing
the river’s silver-mercury as if it’s the royal road.
Later, as we sit in the pub above Ogmore Castle,
the formation returns, silhouetted in the losing light –
a low arrowhead V fly-past – determinedly
aimed for the sea, letting go us, the river, October,
the blacked-out, turned to night pine trees.
