Poem: Riverbank

Riverbank

The gate opens with a yawn,
undisturbed, yet, by foghorns
or the fixings of lovers’ locks.
The sounds of muddy spades 
are yet to permeate the space between
the river and the rock, where
a seagull stands and contemplates St Pauls.

What can we see—
a Y-shaped stick,
plenty of bricks,
something which looks like a key.
Are you a lifeboat, Sarah Lee?
Have you ever seen the sea?
I know its rude to ask a lady’s age,
so I’ll just wonder quite how long you’ve lived
without thought, on the river—
an old wet tomb of mud and men, 
that still spits bottles long emptied of laudanum
left to be smashed on the shore.

Tucked against a wall, I am alone,
hidden from all who stroll along the bank above,
I tread on lumps of broken chalk, like bones.