my river

my river was slow and wide
we swam in it then
largely ignored by
a town of hucksters
that turned its back
chasing shillings
visited by dockers,
working-women and us
boys fishing for salmon
catching eels
bamboo canes from Boyd's
and gut from Nestor's
made us hunters
ever hopeful. seldom lucky
women
the dark subject of gossip
and work-less dockers
longing for ships
of shallow draft
that would clear the silt.
Twice a day she chased
the ocean pushing back
rising, falling
limestone skirts
rusty ladders
old mills watching,
now blasted and gone
over the years
she took our shit.
Dirtied.
'till only the very tired
go in.