River, Morning

River, Morning.

Glass out over the water,

glass washed to fuzz by a patient sea

has crept up river

to blanket the browned expanse,

nothing much under

save the jellies and the slime.

The river holds its secrets,

leaching out as warning signs:

don't swim; don't fish.

We've left our mark.

the birds

with their plectrum-pluck songs

weave the air into web

that catches only sound.

The night has sunk itself

to fizzed mist on the nearby windows,

The air, heavily wet

exudes a gluggy tranquillity

that slops against the skin.

The river looks old, old

with the barked pillars

that line its wending path.

It looks mysterious, and self-evident,

a wending ribbon hung

from the neck of moments

that pass through,

save the sunk-under

muck that confirms

we was 'ere.