The bridge at Fittleworth
Casual, rainy otherwheres and –whens
producing this small determined river
with its stone bridge and its mill-house demand
we think of what is more than probable;
and nothing else approaches permanence
so close as these edges of land with water:
not the metalled road, certainly, or buildings
however venerable; only the horizon
and we carry that with us and cannot
locate ourselves by it as by this rush
of water, this deep pool, the long shadows
waiting for mayflies and gathering strength
for the mill-race. And the house, windows lit
early against the dusk, and its shut gates.
Under construction
Dad’s death spins you, brother, to Ringwood
where barbel shoulder shallow water, turning
the gravel, dorsals in the sun; a kingfisher
ignites; and you heave friar-fat carp out
of a slow glide, bronze tench, and your first chub;
a motorway crosses the landscape, and
I catch nothing, and possibly that helps.
What was broken? Only the Colne at Thorney,
where we would follow him across the weir’s
unfenced wooden footbridge carrying tackle
and lunch, to swims with long green weeds that swayed
in the swift current, and plump red-finned roach:
and this new road can no more turn the river
it casually spans, than touch the past.
Ur
Five water nymphs in the lily-pond
Four in the quick slide between the rocks
Three spreading a tablecloth on the bank
Two on the footpath under the bridge
And one in the lock-keeper’s cottage.
Hush: you will disturb the fish. You must
concentrate, watch for the float to bob.
Five water nymphs bathe with the curving trout
Four play tag in the broken water
Three wash their hair and shake it out to dry
Two drink the river out of their cupped hands
One turns the sheet down for the fisher-boy.
Hush: be still: wait for the rod to tremble,
the line to inch between your finger-tips.
There was a river.
There was a river beside which I cooked
freshly caught trout for my lover’s breakfast
silver and dancing as the waking day.
We took a picnic down to the gorge
and on a sun-hot boulder we made love
while water hurtled past at either side.
We stopped for tea where the river widened;
amongst bird song and butterflies and buddleia
we threw morsels of cake to rising fish.
At dinner we stared out above the wine:
out of the darkness boats’ lights shone across
the estuary and the unseen tide:
the sea waited; the night was filled with waves.
We drowned in it, rescued ourselves in it.