Kincardine. Kelpies. Half buried traffic cones puncture the pleated river mud. Waterlogged rotting wharves where cargo once sailed downstream. The boatyard finds a french man in a caravan brought here by work and love, he says. A lone lorry driver cooks a meal on a camping stove in his wagon. A lapwing’s cry pierces the dumb silver horses.


Opening bars of percussive rain on reed, a bellowing bruise of an indigo sky. Bell pulling ropes of the bullrush ring a change of key, leaves the whispers of willows to lament the fading song now that the swifts are gone. Sounds of late summer on the marsh.