Driving out of Epping Forest

The hill road parts the trees and

leads me down to the valley

where a high-sided reservoir

has been basking like a bloated

beached whale for a hundred years

in the valley where they built it

for thirsty Betjeman Metrolanders

who squeezed themselves

like toothpaste out of London for

mortgaged lives in semi snobbery.

It is a reservoir where sheep may

safely graze its greening slopes.

Today the surface is a silvery mirror

of unrippled water, often

favoured by the moon at night

for the odd skinny-dip or two.

I'm tempted to suggest we Londoners

run all our taps at once to draw the moon

a little closer. That would take

your breath away, like the sight of geese

departing across the water, low as

Vulcan bombers in formation overhead,

wouldn't it?

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