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Surface Water
Matt Gilbert
Unravelling north through a wilderness
of warehouse, the Wandle lies on walking
maps, flowing ribbon-perfect azure blue.
Not yet lost, unlike its buried city siblings,
this river is still running. Turning ghostly
waterwheels as it courses to the Thames.
Once cherished depths, fat with trout, eyed
by antique anglers, provide a graveyard now,
for furiously retired bikes and the punctured
carcasses of old blown safes. A mangled mess,
gifted to a wheezing river god, overlooked
by watchful heron, static on abandoned crates.
But though the gullet has been choked of late,
with pennywort, discarded masks and cans –
kingfishers will insist on hunting it, despite us.
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