Egford Brook

Egford Brook, with Scum

For Alex

Heavy rain last night, now the brook runs full

café latte with froth racing downstream

like traffic, the bubbles, but spinning, changing shape

as they go, dirty curdles joining other bits, growing foam

here & there it hooks itself to branches, rocks—

makes pocked soufflés, milkshake with gunge.

On the bends in the banks, it dumps custard pies,

floats bread & butter pudding by the stones

(where children playing Squirrel Nutkin

hopped to Owl Island and got water in their boots).

As if rushing straight from a keg, a head of beer ferments

by a root; midstream, judges’ wigs dangle from twigs.

Unsure if all natural organic surfactant,

or discharge, effluent, run-off, detergent

I think, let the scum rise to the surface, let it be visible—

as without, so within … let’s look it fully in the eye.

Birdsong, sunlight mossing the trees now shedding

their leaves—old things dying for the…