Beside glimpses of minks and watervoles
I think of otters ghosting the shallows,
or stowed in the tree roots of an ancient holt
where they tangle, twine like two soft knots.
Pairs swim downstream under balsam and knotweed,
are myth by the time they skim Brightside weir:
the spraint and mulched claw prints one's left behind
have the delicacy and shine of gifts.