Iron-water
At source the stream seems to seep
From a tiny clay mire
Back up in the trees
That never quite scabs, even
In July’s driest spells.
Up there its bed
Is a bright seam
Of ochre silt running
Fault-like through the leafmould.
Down here rotten planks bridge
A drainage-ditch, rosy
With a fresh bloom of rust.
Dwelling on drowned oakleaves
And roots, cauled in ruddy
Grit, here where it pools,
I see puddles
Under a hull building
On the stocks, steelworks, the slagbanks
Piled along the coast
To the spoilheaps and mines at Askam,
In pastoral quiet hear
The northern tinge in source
Where nature’s rusty
Trace colours my speech.
Page(s) 37
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