Current (Poetry)

Today the current is unhurried,
wends its mumbling way between the banks,
nudging the hulls of boats at rest —
a prod or playful slap in passing,
a reminder who provides their anchorage.

They bob and seem to curtsey
like the maidens they are named for —
the Little Venus and the Josephine —
newly caulked and rigged, they ride demure,
blushed by morning’s sun-streaked flattery.

Tide laps the jetty, marks the pitted stone
with its wet reach and mottles with fine rust
each link of mooring chain,
its anchor pendant dangled like a charm
to appease the river god.

Waves move on, a stubborn restlessness
of water finding its own level — smoothing out
to apparent flatness in the distance where the sky
dips down and touches, blurs its blue-grey line
and seals the curve with light.