Calling it by another name - Easter Sunday, 8am

How cool the sea looks
all those blue miles to itself
 
the sun on the estuary.
 
And the river is lost
in a glitter it doesn't own.
 
Seven days of wood is coming downstream
with a river-load of rain  
 
and all the spent fires of a continent
of trees.
 
And the cormorant
 
who disappears      
 
and returns
 
somewhere else   
and with a splash
 
vanishes
 
again
 
and each time closer        or more
 
distant
 
leaves the surface
charged   
 
and otherwise
 
electrifyingly
 
difficult to define  
without describing
 
how the world is
 
expanded: 
 
first        by its rising   
then
 
by its absence.