Just upstream from Cookham Bridge on Berkshire’s bank
The sailing club;
Sunday race day, chilly November day,
A breeze of barely four knots attempts to cross the flat unruffled Thames.
Distant high woods now show branches
What leaves remain are as dull gold on a gloomy day
Each dingy barely moves, the crews try every tactic
Against the stream
Mirror calm replicates the colour of each person’s garb.
A sharp blast from the Race Box abbreviates the frustration of the day.