The south bank was just
an impressionist smudge
we could see the earth’s
curve in the floating deck
February was clinging
to the estuary sludge,
the juggernaut of goods
- a shrinking speck;
you looked to the flat
fields of yellowbelly
flavourful sausages,
and midnight poaching
Yorkshire folk call them
coarse and smelly,
and their language skills
need careful coaching;
I see you’re thinking
about years of war
when women fought
for the army of land,
she’d tell you how
their palms were sore,
and kids of today
could not understand;
the same wide river,
the dream of a bridge
where merciless
Roman legions came
down from billowing
chalkland ridge
- enforcers in the
Emperor’s name;
you try to recall
through winter’s fog
gathering samphire
in your summer coats
hearing the wind
like a whining dog
ripping the scarves
from tender throats
