Out in the dull gold gloaming

past drowsy horses in cool wet grass

leaning on ancient mossy walls

of a long gone castle

looking down on the peat dark river

in still pools far below

with caramel colour foam

where rocks oppose its flow

the little burn gurgling gleefully

as it joins its older brother

 

a secret place - no roads or tracks

fishermen discouraged by steep banks

too many trees for fly casting

the dappled trout lying unworried

lazily keeping pace with the current

 

a quiet hardworking beaver family

its haven known to few supporters

unpopular through no fault of theirs

having been  unwittingly re-introduced

causing a flood last winter

as the saplings so laboriously felled

came down with the spate

damming the river and flooding the village

 

they only do what programmed to do

those poor busy little beavers

received with undeserved hostility

delighted in only by their few friends