You believe in leaves, their spiky
decay, in each damp imprint you find signs
the light is a moment from its image
and you leave the house full of your mind

to the edge of the dark river, its
industrial water patterned with
carrier bags but the bridge
you had hoped for is broken,
a chewing gum on the pavement still
indented. The parentheses from the willow
float downstream. I catch you, knee beeding,
one foot still caught in the spokes.
Your chest swallowing cry, but
you are too old to let it out.
A heron is greying in the water,
beside himself the Thames and us.