We sail, loose-kneed over murky jade water
towards Terrapin Point. Our blood-red ponchos

cling to our bare arms. You lift the plastic
from your sides, winged fingers –

raise a pterodactyl screech so high you take off
over the railing, to see Niagara falling first hand,

slicing through rock face, bone, pelt, fern;
all time crushed in swathes.

Be careful, I bellow, as the boat
surges past Bridal Veil breaking on boulders,

shooting mist thick as hailstones towards
you circling overhead, the bare neck of land below.

Dearest reader! Our newsletter!

Sign up to our newsletter for the latest content, freebies, news and competition updates, right to your inbox. From the oldest literary periodical in the UK.

You can unsubscribe any time by clicking the link in the footer of any email you receive from us, or directly on info@thelondonmagazine.org. Find our privacy policies and terms of use at the bottom of our website.