Grey

The water plants and wire
gather in the weir
they wander in the current
like tangled woman's hair.

And water going nowhere
eddies through the mesh
and courses down the incline
a harnessed, swollen rush.

The stream is starred with discards
there are no animals
but in the aching water
fish splinters, grey and dull.

I lean upon the railing
above the ragged slope
that stumbles into chambers
cold, colourless and deep.

There are no stones to skip here
no wide and open land
the weir is as romantic
as the battered pub beyond.

The place cries out in hunger
for something to ignite
it fights its own sterility
and bends beneath its weight.

This town could be another
this autumn any year
deliver us from barrennes
to something sharp, and rare.