River. Bank. Low tide. Swollen stretch marked skinned bellies of mud, silvered mirrors reflecting the sky, river and land so it is difficult to know where each element begins and ends. Rows of teeth, rotten wooden pegs slurp the dish grey tea twice a day, slaking their eel worn gums, cursing the bladderwrack boils that grout the gaps. A curlew cries, new moon bird of sickle bill, slices a sliver of itself through the flat lands of slow passage.