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.