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.
Copyright © Paul Willason | Year Posted 2022
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