Poetry

Thoughts on a waterway

I
From the hill, under the windmill,
the canal writes itself
for twenty eight miles
over flatlands, still-moving.

In the mid-distance the sea speaks,
and sometimes fails
to say anything at all.

Reeds bend backwards idly,
while we ramble through
a tedious conversation,
along the waterway.
You say that I’m a liar.
I have found them though,
seen them for myself
in the yellow afternoon
that comes, warm, from my mouth.

Shall we chase words under the verges
into the clear unclear water?
You have told me often enough
that you’d like to go to the bottom.
I can’t say I know entirely
what has been left there
but it has been due a dredging
for some years now.
Let’s go, waist deep in.

And when we get back,
cold, sodden and solemn,
with the smell of pure language
burned into our noses
we can sleep then, again.

II
Barefoot on the grass,
a sentence stands
apologetically poised
on your tongue’s tip.

One rub of an eyelid eases out
a sound that falls saltily
over the crest of a cheek
and onto my coffeed lips
where silence finds an end.

On the out folded table inside,
that is covered by leaves
that we picked
and scattered around
because we like letting spring in,
there is a mug of tea,
for us to drink over a book.
The rings stain brown
the milky pages, see.

The rings stained brown
the milky pages, see,
and the book,
ruined brilliantly in the reading,
is there to bend backwards
on the tube home
in the queasy air.
Dredge it for all its worth.

III
Tall girl, handsome girl.
I’ll unmake you in a word girl,
while climbing the martello
that exposes itself
engraved on the horizon,
with my right eye.

On its top it is possible
to see thousands of caravans
that sit like scattered molars
as a radius for the town of Rye.
Pluck one and look under the pillow
for a word in the morning.

They have the look of still things
but can be moved
under certain conditions
which only people
who move caravans
and understand their heft know.
We all, at some point,
will be in that business.

And in carrying a tonne
of white blocks
down a man made river
it is quite probable
that those made girls
will come occasionally
to offer you a hand
in the chaos of the sentence
with words spilling into
the next unwritten field;
Shall I unmake them too?

IV
On the bridge that crosses
away from distraction,
bank to bank, over the canal,
away from distraction,
the yellow taste returns.
It twitches on the water
after sticks filled with lead
hit the surface and make outward ripples
that reach the edges and turn back
inward rippling to the very start,
almost into the margins.

We used to do that as children,
I don’t know why,
didn’t have to know why.
Instead we ran quick
to the other railing
to see which small piece
of wood would prevail
in our childish games,
didn’t stick around
to think about non-existence,
or even watch the ripples.

V
You lost me down stream,
on solid-unsolid terrain,
shingles instead of grass,

shingles as opposed to grass,
making efforts at finding
a route to safety.

It is more difficult, though,
when the ground beneath foot
gives way every seven steps,
and I tend to find that danger
will take me home.

Retracing your steps,
you see that everything
is malleable at our toes’ tips.
The grounds soft face does want to
take us back to the water.

At its bank, the canal lays itself, again,
beneath our senses, still moving
long after purpose is discarded;
everything is malleable.

VI
The sea speaks;
sends us wind
that whistles beneath
autumn coloured iron
into mind or sight
to inflate flocks of words
with gusts of noise.

Our home made,
in the easy silence.
by writing hands,
appears as a small black hut
complete with a red top.
It contains and releases,
every other day or so,
the work of mouths
down the channel.

VII
The Kingfisher darts
on blue feathered wings
as a half sight between
exchanged words.

She lowers to pluck
from the water,
with real precision
things not as they are
but as they could be,
and holds them fluttering
behind those reeds.

In the quiet hide,
on the canals side,
you watch for days
at the out folded table
to catch in suspense,
the thief of things,
wings feathered.

With just a glimpse,
the Kingfisher is lost
again between words
we’ve caught and understood,
and put away in untidy beds.

VIII
Frost announces itself
on windows in January;
a signature in blue,
that looks with worry
over the canal.

Its thick water struggles
to give us anything
but yellow Sundays
in the back of our eyes
gestured in by sleep.

Eighty five coffee spoons
in the porcelain sink wait
for the pipes to thaw.

The table set for writing
is piled with brown leaves
because we forgot
to take winter out.

Aidan Jenner