The Beck

They call it Ellerbeck.
It should be Alderbeck.
It rustles on a mile,
Talking to itself, the way becks do,
With alders either side,
Some plunged knee–deep,
Some paddling in the shallows,
One dipping in an elbow, like a girl
In a canoe to feel the cool.
Little frisks and twirls
Roughen the glaze, and dimples
Catch the winter sun
And make a sparkle.
Below, the beck once turned a mill.
Above, farm geese and ducks
With cheeky tails, disport,
And cows, coming to drink and dribble
Muddy the grassy edge.
But for a mile it is pure beck,
Water for water's sake,
Able to mutter to itself, as water does.