River Torridge

I knew the river hid
behind the bank,
lying, like a length of silk,
stretched between the willows.

The surface ripped,
something dived –
gone too long to be a bird.

Weasel head above the water,
down he went again,
a flash of oily fur.

He swam up beside,
this time he stayed,
looking at me straight.
I walked to keep his pace.

I loved his length –
his tail his body,
his body his tail,
his tail the river’s length.
We moved together
through the wind,
along the river’s course.

Another dive,
I skimmed the current,
searching for his guise.

He’d gone on alone.
I felt him though,
gliding through
the river’s strength.