Upstream, they’ve built gardens
out of marshland,

plots of leeks patrolled
by bitterns, the water

plate-glass flat, growing
brackish in summer,

précis: the color of
indifference.

In town, day-drinkers float
in a sea of wicker

and ashtrays and flat-faced
dogs caught up in their leads.

Beyond the quai
the church bells toll time,

here, another passing hour
is only another train

that’s gone.
Somewhere farther

up North, the river
dumps out, in memory,

the coast was always cold.
Even on a sunny day

I never could see
England,

just odd anglers
and birds,

with wingspans wide
as lonely hours.