Father Thames

November's winter sun is bleeding low where cold Thames makes a tidal run and also gentler pewter flow towards the city docks, the sea, towards the rising of the sun A single coot beside a tethered boat paddles nowhere with each nodding scoot, to pace the passing stream and bobbing here and there to duck for silty scraps beneath the polished surface gleam. Gulls face to worship low sun's last and warming rays. They stand upon Lord Beefington, on Topsy Sharp, on Rhos and fairy Meagen, all with their canvas winter wraps white spattered with white birdy craps. The path beneath old Richmond's bridge, arched dark before night lights come on, is crowded at its ends, boats beached upon the towpath. Here pilgrim Turas sits alone, now tethered to the rails, awaiting suns with higher arc and boarding of much newer oars, unfurling of much brighter sails. And still beside the river's path the coot is paddling, back to sun, still nodding, beaking passing weedy bits one by one by one, still pushing hard against Thame's flow to bob for scraps and then let go, still going nowhere, nowhere to go, while Father Thames makes haste below webbed feet, below the tethered keels, below each bridge and arches where they span to meet the river's stream until, with sea, the journey slows to journey's end, the flow complete where Father Time must take his seat around that final bend. Here I wait to greet my Father, and my Father waits for me.