I often row the river fair

I often row the river fair
and softly talk to the evening air
but as the creeks and cracks align
a different heart-to-heart I find
hidden in the ruffled oak
the lonely heron starts to croak
a messenger from winds away
he sings away, in perfect play

And look again beneath the glass
the tiny, streaming stars amass
from phosphorescent gleaming glow
to feather from a passing crow 
and since Phoenicians wade this way
obsidian for tin they’d sway
as lawless boughs on water rest
the Helford heron makes his nest

Through time though time has come to be
the moon has seen and seen has she
the gulping tide of human hand
who destined not to understand
come rowing in the wrinkled light
weightless drifting through the night
with eyes, though eyes they cannot see
the river in its subtlety 

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