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.