The oystercatcher furtling about in
the mudbanks is silent and focused and
the butterfly and the lizard make no
sound that can be heard above the clank of
mast cables and the gentle river flow
beside which we’re absorbed in Ouest France
and our books into which pine needles twirl –
until the urgent tap-tap-tapping of
the woodpecker we’d forgotten we met
last year raises smiling pairs of eyebrows