The river flows on
surges over and under me,
marsh lover, mud flipper
down amongst the groundlings,
moorhens, blue-lights,
sweet-shallow-mornings.
I am scaled and slithered:
strings of weed for hair,
dipping my shade-fingers
amongst bubbles and eddies,
spark-netted on the meanderings
of the mind’s own river,
hearing the shadow-ghosts
of all those drowned girls: witches,
~dipped down deep amongst
the slippery tendrils,
swan-necked lovelies
warbling in the reeds singing. |