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Meandering in late December, BC (Before Covid) - 23rd Dec 2016

As I scan the flow of this long meandering river, the crisp December air bites my cheeks, fills my lungs with quiet joy.  A cloud of white seagulls descend and on landing tuck their wings, bob on the swell like miniature buoys.   A Cormorant flies inches above  the water's surface; a black back- slash across the shimmering shades of grey, silver and greenish-brown. The passing tugboat blows its horn, leaves a long caret of frothing water.   And as the Thames swells, waves of water swallow the side of the  promenade with satisfied gulps.  The promenade merges into  newly paved walkway, lined on one side by woodland, on the other by roughly chopped-back bush.   A woman and two young girls  break straight branches from  a leafless tree: arms already laden with red pyracantha berries. I smile, imagine their front room, a kindling fire and how how they would later lay the branch...
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A Stillness Pervades

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Mid-Morning.  A stillness pervades.   The river, long sheet of foil, reflective.  Even the fishing cormorants stretch up,  curve  and dive down through the water like  a razor through cloth.   Barely a sound or ripple made.  
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Anglers' envy

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Anglers watched  the Cormorant  with envy:  out-stretched wings slapped down on shallow waters,  clumsy like an eager novice  of the butterfly stroke;  discombobulated  fish flop  in beak of  up-tilted  head and  down  long, narrow  gullet.  Glint of emerald eye,  satiated r epose.   Fishing r ods leant  against  the balustrade.    Idle.
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A Preyer

  My spinnerets extrude silk; the dew dresses each thread with jewels.  The river breeze adds fragrance and  billow.   I am a glitzy prey catcher.  The sickening sounds of foottreds; City dweller, slow down, slow down. Your eyes pass me.
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Brown Feathered Bird Sings the Blues

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In a yellowing and russet autumn, easterly winds release long whistles; scatter ripples across the waves, riverside reeds bow in deference And a small lighthouse stands alone, On a scarred outcrop. Iceland trolley, burnt out motor- bike, dead hairless cat drape seaweed rocks. The circle of trees are long gone, are replaced by razor-wire fencing: corroding steel, this city’s rustic. Yet still I sing. Even as light slips toward night, high perched, high pitched trill of hope burning combines with chirrs for the re-wilding of barren steelscapes And styrofoam-free crevices.
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