Rush, rush the black bulrush
Edible root whilst in full flush
Cleansed by the flow
Of waters fast and slow
Invigorated by the pull and push
The silvered kingfisher likes
And knows its prey as it strikes
Through still or moving water
Pure intuition not taught her
By non or any from rivers or dykes
Fast flow the days that end
In thought or deed that would transcend
In stopping all of natures pleasures
That locks the door on unseen treasures
And rent the fabric that will not mend
They will not meddle with these things
Or fear the wrath that meddling brings
It is this way that nature’s hidden
To try to change it is forbidden
Be you peasant or be you kings
