The interest on my mortgage preys on my mind
as I gaze at the waters of the River Almond:
a town river with a purpose, as brown as its name,
effervescing at the weir
with chemical excess.
To the side then, at a glance:
shredded ends of white plastic.
Then clearer; in focus:
feathers puffed out,
drying, patient for a fish: a heron.
We wait. Quiet for minutes. Until the pages
of the cartoon book flick again in animated time:
great wings outstretched, up the riverbank.
