I park on Chesterton Road and walk across the bridge,
relishing the deep green of the river – its dank, tangy air.
This place warms my blood and I am, after all, seventy
percent water. I feel alive here, younger, freer. A river
life is a secret dream of mine; open sky above, water
below; to sail away into nothing at all. Two boats are moored
together, their long lean bodies lie close, like lovers in bed,
bumping against each other, gently comforting, bulk to bulk.
The liquid emerald river slides its green fingers down their sides.
Eddying currents wind round the two sleeping hulks – two safe
spaces in the middle of this busy city. On the closest deck,
balanced around the narrow torso is a bursting array of
window boxes; carefully tended bright red geraniums.
I smile, imagining myself crouching, potting, scattering
soil over my roof, finding it between my toes, in my bed,
amongst my cutlery and dishes.
My reddened skin smarts from the sharp water.
This is almost, but not quite, my favourite part;
surviving the freezing swim, rushing to dress
before the cold blues my body completely.
Leaving through the click of the turnstile; dawdling,
back along the river path towards the metal bridge,
past the heavy black and white lock gates,
the cheerful ice cream stall, the milling tourists,
the panting dogs, the toddlers feeding swans.
I stop on the bridge, look through the lattice,
down, onto the weir, the matted collection of
crisp packets and plastic bottles,
tree branches and rotting leaves,
caught,
stuck,
captured,
struggling
to escape.