three stories are sailing towards the river
they branch from the basin in the direction of the new line
often hungry
they intermingle on the descent,
fetch their allowed cargoes
of flames, razor blades, local beers, Indian tattoos
and they enter early morning
one has disappeared and heads west to the streets of the town
translated into magic maps and scant silver details of the river.
one has gone down the counterbalanced inclines, to autumn,
grey summer changed to drab grey streets and the drab city,
and the various wintery waterways
one
laden with fruit and wine
takes the canal up to the natural harbours of the houses at nightfall
dark stone and shining lamps illuminating gilded windows.
they carry a character all after all
the story of the good stuff in life
poignant memoir of the now
and the five years we have lived beyond the edge of the map.
