‘A dowser is a poet’ you thought,
leaning on the farm gate to find the way.
But maps have never helped us much,
our best glimpses when we went astray,
left the paths the maps taught,
like starlings circling an unrisen sun.
‘We could try following the signs’ you say,
but I was watching the twilight come,
the pike trembling in the fast stream,
a fieldfare landing on the farm gate.
It has been a rambling kind of day,
but somewhere, we found water.
