No Compass

No Compass
by Aoife Mannix

Suspended above the river,
the low thunder of barges banging
fills the evening with the ghosts of shipwrecks.
The art of reading treacherous currents,
how the sands change with the light,
sulphurous yellow, slate grey.
The remains of the city far in the distance,
fingers pointing up to heaven, a landmark inverted.

Will-o’-the wisp voyages, gas worker sailors.
Her grandfather dived to lay the Atlantic cable,
a string tying us to new worlds.
Telegrams sunk, lost communications,
the green rust of dark, dangerous, dirty labour.

The dream of a small rowing boat navigating
the Thames, the twists and turns of an urban skyline.
Contaminated history, how the mud can suck you under
quicker than you’d ever believe possible.
The mystery of names, signposts sighing in the rain,
the wind whistling orchestras through steel girders.

If you get lost out here, the water
will bring you back eventually.