Monday, 18 January 2016

The River Isn't Blue

On a layer of concrete, nature’s bone
Long worn – now thrown up defiance.
It was 8 am, Monday
And I was evading the papers
Instead this the science,
I’d rather feel through my fingers:


Snow
And the light
Turning skin blue.
It burnt into my hands
Its insatiable fragrance



I waited
Steadfast like graphite, though
Turned by sensation: Sharper
The wind
But the clearer the view.
This was the learning of laughter
As I churned the flakes upwards
Watching them fall
Beside the riverbank, evading school



The moment you realise
White is made up of colours
For then
Over the Irwell
A kingfisher flew.