Thursday 10 February 2011

River

i
Two-backed, turned-
in-on-itself. A lip.
Duct. Clipped rushed

breaths over troughs
where dippers walk
cinclus cinclus

familiarity lost
in the song of name.
The twelve-digited

ii
weir a duodenum,
a conduit of rude
chyme. A film

on the surface.
Thick as a holly
leaf. The surface of

what? Whisper
it. The paper
or the celluloid,

iii
magpie images are
words, and words.
Somewhere

is a duplicate
of this river,
in three dimensions.

Bellows of lock-
gates. Rust of
water. Drip-

iv
drip of ducks.
In time faces
may be revealed,

but here in
the original,
the type that is

motionless.
Fated to be
static.