I can see my childhood amongst the fenced bomb shelters no longer there.
And the Goats’ Field still lies empty.
The River Shuttle’s gentle banks are gone now, replaced by cement walls.
So Billy can’t scramble , won’t wade and ford.
Cheryl won’t swing and Jenny won’t scream her thrill of horror.
Steve’s feet will stay disappointedly dry – much to his mum’s delight.

The meander remains,
the trees still bow to the much-reduced majesty of the Shuttle,
but we can’t join the dance from the walled edge
– we can only drink in the river’s weak echo.

- Willersley
- Marlborough
- Lamborbey
- Halfway Street
- Ye Olde Black Horse

The snooker hall, full of ‘don’t tell your mother’ chatter
and I can’t reach that blue spot even at a stretch.

The Glade stretches and hops down to re-join the Shuttle
- River Cray
- Foots Cray Meadows
- River Darent
- Darent Valley

to hospital wards full of discarded mothers, falling back into the river and drifting to the Dartford Creek barrier, erected by the well-meaning against the anticipation of that Boxing Day tidal wave

- a calculated sacrifice of our pasts for a hoped-for last laugh.

Layer by layer
the wailing wall
still weeps
leaks life
still happy
to receive
prayers to gods
who no longer reside
no longer invest
in their attempt
to subdue
a fierce people.
                  And the river offers up her long laughter below.

Eyes of the stars are
on the wings of the fireflies.
Guess who is marching
in the moonlit night?
The moon rows down
on to the river.

Has the Huri squeezed
out of the gem packed
tight door of paradise?
Basked out on the gripping
bank of the Sal Sabila River,
only to spill a heady perfume
drop down on the stunned
awestruck silhouetted night?

The eve has long gone far
to wear a khol of this
mesmeric shady contour!
No one, not even you
will want to miss the peak.
Where it all begins with
the tuberoses riding the wind.

Blankets of verdant emerald over fallen limbs,
Crooken arms,
Enclosing up and over and under,
Walk, sting, stop, puddle,
Ankle deep in laughter and brown, murky water,
Joy spread across our faces,
Mud smeared up our arms, legs, hands and hats,
Indestructible powerhouses with totally vulnerable feet,
Like ducks and foxes and rabbits.
The spongy bark or mighty trees fills me with hope,
That my wounds will heal.

Hustling winds,
through the silent streets.
A dying flower,
with a hope to live.
Thunderclouds,
in search of solace.
A blank paper,
awaits to be written on.
Somewhere amidst this chaos,
we met.
We met,
for the wind,
to break the silence,
for the flower,
preserved forever,
between the pages of our story,
for clouds,
to let it rain,
for paper,
decorated in smell of love.
We met,
like the limitless sky meets the land,
with memories sealed in clouds,
sailing across the silent blue ocean.
We met,
like the drifting river meets the sea,
mixing into each other,
making it one water altogether.
We met,
like the first drop of blissful rain meets the thirsty earth,
losing his existence,
to nurture her.
We met.

A slow skull, but steady
as four pull by in unison,
the river readies me for another day
with current confidences
quietly spoken

In comparison, the busy chat
of small brown birds seems rude,
but cheek and charm
forgive a lot
if not all

It’s to the bees I’ll look
for industry this Sunday,
though if their lead will be followed
is yet to be decided

Moist morning dew, I river bathe aloof
Rushing water filters out my youth
Wilted skin sheds, falls to fish as food
Old parts always have their use
Cleansing waters and reflective banks
Currents carry away yesterday
Older now, baptized anew