Backwater

I am waiting for the world to ask me to dance.

Somewhere in cities, the people who matter are drinking
new kinds of coffee, exchanging jacket blurbs and agents.
Meanwhile I’m skirting the Co-op car park,
up and over the sea wall to the estuary.

Tide’s out. The sun gilds the mud
rumpled and cracked like elephant hide
where a dozen thirsty boats perch on their keels.

Three ducks in formation traverse the chimneypiece of the sky.
Six porcelain teacup swans, looping their necks just so,
dip for delicacies in the low-tide mud.

Weeds rustle out a puckered ribbon of green along the footpath;
a tiny wren, too slight to bend its tiny branch.
The wind runs a finger around my collar.

In the underpass, a freight train overhead pins me in place,
rattles out a heartbeat –
Set down
This, set down
This –

Tide’s turning. The boats lean eastwards, expectantly.
Birds spring free on a lifting breeze and sunlight spills over
tapping may I? on my shoulder
slipping its hand in mine.