We stood there on a winter day.
The rootless horn-wort always seen
In shallow moorland ponds was there,
This pond a spring or watering-hole
For Gower horses. Picked, this weed
Had dangling a tube of slime
Meniscus on the emerald green.
Immersed again it spread its full
Feathers about in loose relief
Back in wild, icy water. If

We looked at it, we stared at it
In fact just like a 'nature class'
Which we in some ways have become,
Living out here. Bogweed, star-wort,
A long-haired not a spongy moss
We'd never seen, its thrilling stems
...