Boats on the Wear

Illustrated by Tula Wild. 

Gentle river,
why do I make no more
a slight dip in your surface?

Where is my blade,
my wrenching vessel,
to clip the tops
of your crisp ripples?
Where are the wind-caught tears
that no more rear in smiling eyes,
to the pull and chop
of your jolting push?

Open again your sluice-gates
into my chest;
let me feel the icy surge
of your staining juices,
the thick thud
of your darker colours,
and clog my workings
till I am no more
than a muscle,
cracking my longer limb
to gush through your current.

What I would sacrifice
to up-turn once more
in the upside down
of your middle,
your belly,
the rushing tumult
catching at my pulse-

If only to breathe deep
your freezing centre,
fill my lungs to bursting,
and finally shoot through
to the waiting air.
Surging forth, my body will be bathed
serenely
and I shall emerge from you
abluted,
heaving,
new.

25/05/19