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:

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.

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