Mrs B was there when this was born, on the other end of the phone: but I didn't tell her it all.
Ferriby Foreshore, February afternoon 2005
The river was calm this afternoon with a low sun
Casting a mile wide buttery playing field dotted
With the white of drifting clouds moving slowly
Across the yellow: to my left rising up I spotted
Two pair of mallard flying line astern past me,
Splitting into two pairs each to go their own ways.
I felt myself following their progress, aiming off
Imagined squeezing the trigger like in the old days
Recalled my feelings of cold horror and distaste
As I picked the slack carcasses up from their fall
Opened my, bag, pushed my kill in in a haste;
To get them out of my sight, to deny my crime;
To get that dead feel away from my fingers;
Back over the years those powerful memories
Still there so strong, still so vividly linger
I regret every one death
I still feel that guilt a lot
Though not for sport
For the family food pot.
The river sometimes does this to me, dragging my life
From deep deep down brain and spreading it out there
Churning my joys, hates, loves, memories, fears,
Into mishmash that always leads to this black despair.
I do not like the water, though I cannot keep away.
I t lures me and lulls me, whispers, sings and calls
So strongly; I have this real, strong fear that one day
It will at last succeed and the I
Will be drawn by its cold beauty
To explore the unknowable, to fulfil
What seems a long time deferred duty.
Destiny maybe; and then as always
The pathways go, covered by cloud
And the clown can return, muttering
His heartfelt thanks out aloud.
The river so powerful deep
Cold fast wide tells me
How very easily it can
Carelessly dash me aside;
Only the river can do this to me,
For only the river seems able to see
Deep down to my mind inside
And the once crying child
That many of us need to try and hide.
