Untitled
My back turned against the town,
the river flows across my view,
tidal, broad, flowing slowly
into The Wash, through the fens
mixing with salt here.
The town ,behind me, silent,
noisy only on market days,
waits for no-one and expects nothing.
Old beams giving way to shopping
precincts that empty at five.
From over the river the ferry
begins to glide diagonally here,
three women stand up front
their headscarves flap like pennants
blown on a salt breeze.
The ferryman grins and shows
his dark teeth. The coins
for passage pressed tight
in his palm, the other hand
firm on the tiller guides to shore.
Page(s) p13
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