She spent her life apart from folk,
And all her dreams were river dreams.
She watched the weed which hid the pike.
She crept through rushes by the streams.
As winter drew the evenings in,
She’d bend the willow, thread the sedge,
And sleep beneath the branches bowed,
As warm as otter, curled as mink.
On mornings, white with frost and snow,
She’d break the ice which formed in rings
Up by the bank where water’s slow,
And find the haunts of torpid trout.
She’s spent her life – and spends it still –
In river dreams, in drifting free.