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.
Categories:
birkenhead, river,
Form: Free verse
The cigarette Smoking
When I lived in Britain that place where refugees in Calais
try to hide in a lorry for the crossing to the promised land.
And haven where pubs are full and pints of lager is a dream
a longing for the unobtainable.
I liked to visits pubs more often than my wife liked not so
much for the ale, one can buy beer and drink it in the park,
(I remember Birkenhead Park before I got a job and a room)
it was the cosiness of drinking and smoking.
Then we were invaded by the health brigade and that was ok,
and we had to go outside for a ***.
This was no good for my health leaving a warm pub to go to
the winter outside I got a cold so bad I left the country.
Since smoking was no longer sociable I stopped. No doubt some
scientist will tell us a bit of nicotine is good for you.
For me it will be too late, I like nothing more than having a meal
at a restaurant free of stale tobacco smoke.
Categories:
birkenhead, abuse, blessing, celebration, depression,
Form: Sonnet