The river is its own curator
judging art by weight alone.
Five sets of dentures carefully deposited
together to mock the random strangers
who once examined their toothless grins
in mysterious mirrors.
The man at the centre of a storm of coat hangers.
Other debris floating to the surface,
fossils a million years old, a bent kitchen knife,
a glass stopper from a bottle of acid,
plungers, spools, part of a ship’s pulley.
The language of industry.
The history of a small animal
digging its burrow
now forever trapped in solid rock.
The point of turning,
filling the space with sediment,
an absence made present.
The burial records
of an unknown vagrant who died
over three hundred years ago.
A stranger passing through
whose destination came out of parish funds.
Harsh beauty, how the land itself
marks layers of change. Every one of us
who tried to read our names in the water.
Reality sliced thinly,
the pieces that are missing.
The pirates who swung for three tides
knew what it was
to swim through time’s laughter.
A boat heading out to sea, a hidden warning,
a moment uncaptured.
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