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

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