Lower Marsh Speaks
Armed with bags and riddles, they head my way;
shoppers, shepherds, mudlarks. It’s dark and late.
Shadows stick to me, watchful as ever.
Think I come up with the vinegar boat?
Through sandstone slabs, I feel their footprint, lighter
than of late, less of them, but not as light as at first
and voices, I hear their voices but muffled now.
Has the cat got your tongue?
Around my heart, water, around my flanks,
water; the lambs that drank here, that ate my grasses
lie quiet beneath me and dirty-faced children call
is she coming back that way?
Published in Finders of London (Enitharmon) 2010