Boatyard.

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.

6 Replies to “Boatyard.”

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