Its motion stirs
the silence of the pond,
busy only with dry flails of heath aster.

Its shell an old coracle
soiled with thatch,
overturned in a flash flood.

Feet waving in nods slow with
the patience of a day.

The prow of its streaked head
busy with detail as corrugated patina, .

Eyes unyielding points
of black pearl in milky meat.
Ears flotsam peppers

bold red like an old plow,
coasting and jerking with its neck

through the cool membrane
that offers this swimming glimpse,
smoky as burnt glass.