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.
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