Paul Willason Poet Free verse

From Birkenhead Bridge

Memory still walks
along the river
on a summer's evening 
when a soft wind
lingers over the mangroves 
and lifts the smell of mud
rimmed along the river's edge
into the warm air. 

I imagine mulloway 
prowling the deep channels 
dug out by the tides,
the shiny backs of dolphins
arching through the dark,
sewing together 
the torn dreams
of old men.

I can feel the thick flow
of its history and cough
the accumulations 
of a century's waste.
From Birkenhead Bridge
I look out over the river's 
wide reach, its distances 
and into the vanishing point 
of a waiting silence.

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