The Tyndall Effect, (why kingfishers aren't blue)

Last week’s candles now look a sorry state, but
the tardy conkers will prize this rain,
I pick my steps gingerly, on and off the path
a carpet of sodden cherry blossom
subtle rouge stains, bleeding
into the darker puddles. 
Ferns begin to unroll their tongues
eagerly licking at my bare shins,
the taller grasses also bathe my knees
leaving seeds that lodge between my toes
they itch mercilessly.

Three times a week 
I take my usual rest on a sleeper bench
to scan the stream for the kingfisher,
this morning the muddied current
is swift, the sluices must be open.
I saw one once, just once,
last summer
a magical piercing flash
arrowing just above low water,
breath-taking,
so, I wait.

© Graham Sherwood 06/2018