Midday at the quarry

Cootlets make a vee-line on the watery parchment,

calligraphers with quills in place,

heading for the other shore,

as the lone poet speaks his words

to unsuspecting birds

and an audience of clouds.

Then, in the reluctant quiet,

they practice diving -

bobbing like busy floats

in front of sleeping anglers.

Mother coot queeks her orders

to these playing chicks,

apart from that,

and the occasional startled birdcall,

a peace settles.

The occasional carp saunters by -

a guard on perimeter patrol,

stoically flowing well remembered contours.

In the nursery shallows, 

perch and roach,

barely recognisable as yet,

play together unknowing their latent enmity.