Where Are You William
William walks the Thameside path
to skirt the Whitecross public house
beside the bankside boats
some covered by their winter canvas coats
and strewn with planks and dollies
some sitting on their two-wheel trolleys
waiting for the spring to feel
Thames warmer water on their keel.
Facing winter's waining sun,
eyes shielded to the glory of this scene:
the river's mirror-flow
reflecting all this stream of light
from noon's fast fading glow
soon yielding to the cold-moon night,
William's eyes cast low.
He stoops beside a rowing shell
within an upright skiff
both scattered with a jumbled mess
of river planks and sundry bits of winch
and empty cans, discarded bits of litter
from a passer's office lunch,
all thrown and messed within the hull.
Reaching down to rummage litter in this boat
all damp and drowned within its rain-filled sump,
William spies a bottle, which, lifted to the sun
before his squinting eyes, reveals a drop or two
of amber dregs, like gold from silty river beds
made sun-bright treasure to his eyes
soon tucked beneath his coat.
In shame he takes his find
and makes the lesser path behind
the arch where shadows grant his hope
of drawing this to thirsty throat
and drowning out his troubled mind.
With bottle held in trembling grip
Will tilts this nectar to his lips,
with care to spill none to the ground
til no more drops are found
and then he slings this empty vessel
to make an echoed river splash
beneath the bridge's shadowed arch
to sink and meet more river trash.
And never more was glory marred
than by man's hopeless misery,
Nor all God's good so greatly barred
as by Will's shamed iniquity.
Copyright © Bob Kimmerling | Year Posted 2021
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