Spilling by Bronwen Griffiths

The river curves and spills

muddied yet shimmering

out of the frame and into the room

smelling of sea-tang

The winter of teasels

in the windless foreground

sky stained the yellow of sunset

like melted butter

on the edges of pools

The land dark as a crow’s wing

as a flight of cormorants

flies over sea-grey

The pools are ice-blue

russet as apples

the pink of a blush